


Lectio Libri Per Chaos Incarnatum

by CescaLR



Series: In Which Higher Powers Make Mortal Messes. [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Supernatural
Genre: All canon ships will be in some way present given this is a RTB fic, Alternate Universe, Characters Reading Harry Potter Books, Characters Reading Percy Jackson Books, Characters Watching Supernatural (TV), Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Gods, HOWEVER they will not necessarily be 'endgame'! so keep that in mind, Mostly Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, Reading the Books, Tags May Change, Watching the Show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: In which Chaos gets bored, and books are read.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: In Which Higher Powers Make Mortal Messes. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/737766
Comments: 21
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologus.

**Author's Note:**

> it's literally just the working title translated into latin alk;jglaksgj;lkga
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoy... always wanted to do a RTB fic, shout-out to that one that got deleted on FFN which was a HP/PJO crossover with Chaos and a goddess named Vera?? and they were in this house place in.... '''space'''' I think and there was a little girl running around (killing people???? she was creepy as fuck) and Nico kept going missing and the goddess had a Thing with Apollo lmao anyway that was great I have it saved on my phone from back in the day which is why I can't get rid of the old piece of junk <3 I'm missing the first chapter though >:( got 53/54, however, so that's not so bad, but I can a) never remember who wrote it and b) never remember what it was called, how time passes us by eh?

The multiverse is large, and ever-expanding. It is laid out in a very complicated way, utilizing far more than four dimensions. This makes things very difficult to put into words a mortal would understand, but the simplest of rules that govern all existences are thus:

  1. Each individual universe can have up to (and including) 20 parallel universes, but no more. It should have no less, but less is possible and downright feasible, because 20 parallel universes is a lot to keep track of. This means there are only 20 versions, at maximum, of the same existences. For example; only 20 Harry Potters, only 20 Percy Jacksons, only 20 Dean Winchesters, only 20 Wendy Corduroys. Therefore, the fates involved with each individual universe (whether it be the Three Fates, a monotheistic 'God', Fate as a divine being unto itself, Free Will, or any one of the other numerous options) only have to write 20 stories. These things take time, you know, and time may indeed be relative and ever flowing, but it doesn't mean you can miss your deadlines. 
  2. As 'right angles' are indeed a thing within multiverse geometry, each individual universe can have a number of perpendicular universes. This is more complicated than parallel universes, and to keep things simple I shall not explain them further. Just know they exist, and they make things Annoying.
  3. Each individual universe can 'crossover' with other individual universes from within the multiverse. For example, a universe can contain Desmond Miles, a universe can contain Dipper Pines, a universe can contain Arthur Pendragon, and a universe can be made through the intersection - crossing over - of these three individual universes, or any combinations therein. A fully crossed over universe is one in which the intersection follows the entire straight line of all involved universes, by each being laid over one-another on the nth dimensional plane (I do not specify a number, because the number 'n' represents depends entirely on the quantity of parallel and perpendicular universes each individual universe has that culminates in the crossover universe). This makes sense if you can perceive in more than three dimensions, but as mortals can't even do four, the explanation stops here. 
  4. I, being me, have power over all of them. And I, being me, can perceive the goings on in each individual one. 
  5. I am the _penultimate_ Creator of _this_ multiverse. Make of that what you will. I am it's primary Destructor, once the Primary Creator gets tired of this little project. Make of _that_ what you will.
  6. I am very, very bored, nearly all the time. If you're wondering - I am Chaos. 
  7. I get attached to things that I should not. 
  8. Sometimes, I tell my subordinates to do things I probably shouldn't. 
  9. And finally - the rules stated above do not apply to _me._
  10. (Perks of being Chaos incarnate, I suppose.)



* * *

To call me Chaos is a simplification. I am, in essence, the... well, not 'personification', but I suppose it's the closest this mortal language has to the sentiment I intend - the 'personification' of all things destructive and disorderly. A very tongue-in-cheek statement I often hear from my peers is that I am the most 'mortal' out of all of them, but that's only true in the sense that Hestia is the most 'mortal' out of all the Greek deities, or Castiel is most like a 'mortal' within his immortal brethren because he spent a decade or so of his endless existence walking among them, at least in the universes God calls himself Chuck. 

To simplify it in that way, does a disservice to us, the immortals you brand as 'more "human"', and it does a disservice to you, the mortals, those capable of feelings in a more mundane sense. Your perspective is smaller. It accounts for less, and perceives less, and knows less, but it is able, in turn, to experience more. I may get attached, as is my nature, but you can love. Can fear. Can hate. Can have within you a multitude of things I can only give out, not contain. I, and the subordinates like me, are only considered 'more mortal' because we govern very mortal things. Home and Hearth, for Hestia. Disorder and Chaos, for myself, among other things that fall under the purview of such grand ideas based solely on the Primary's designations of what is...  _ divine,  _ and what is  _ not.  _

I am, in essence, the leftover domains. I suppose in that I feel a kinship to mortals - you got the scraps. No power. No wings, no strength, no speed, nothing. Just the one thing the rest of us do not have, which in my own divine opinion makes you more than the rest of us could ever be:

Free Will. 

Of course, that only matters when your Governors respect it. That's the problem with you humans. You don't know when your Free Will is being violated. You don't see in more than three dimensions. You can't perceive extra-dimensional meddling. See, the thing is, the multiverse may have rules... but all rules have loopholes. 

You just need to know where to look. 

* * *

This particular crossover is an interesting one, because it was an accidental one. Some Creator somewhere accidentally missed the fact that putting this universe here would create an intersection with two other previously unlinked universes from two separate strains of creation. This crossover is between a universe containing the Three Fates' favourite playthings; the Greeks, the Romans, etc, a universe containing Chuck, that upstart, and a universe containing Great Concepts; Magic, Death, Life, Destiny, and so on. 

Chaos sends an order down the ladder. It's well known these three are some of Chaos' favourites to observe during a slowdown (there are no 'days', no 'holidays', but sometimes the perception of time in the extradimensional sense 'slows down', and there are fewer things for a consciousness to spread itself between, so it needs a mild distraction, and all stories written are meant to be read, are they not?) and everyone under Chaos' command knows to follow Chaos' whims in matters regarding them. 

At the end of the metaphorical ladder, which is actually three ends because of multi-dimensional perception (but that's again, rather too complicated to go into, but understand that the ladder is one straight line that ends in three entirely separate points with no deviation on the regularly perceivable mortal planes), the Deities of the individual Universes are contacted. 

And by 'contacted', read: 'thrown into a room together.'

* * *

Chronos, the primordial Greek deity of Time, is awoken. The ladder, you see, only goes so far - someone like Zeus is too small and unimportant to be contacted by extra-dimensional beings. Chronos, on the other hand, suits just fine, and is rather more helpful to the orders given by Chaos (not to be confused with the primordial Greek Chaos, a different, non-extra-dimensional deity who does, in fact, only govern the things linked to his name) than his brethren would be. 

Magic, the main governing body of the universe within these three that contains her children, is given physical form and dropped quite unceremoniously into a throne next to Chronos. To note, she is  _ not  _ the most powerful Concept of her Universe, but she is the most appropriate one to place here, and indeed the one least likely to fuck with shit for fun, given part of her purpose is the prolonged existence of her children. Destiny or Death or Fate may have their own agendas, so they were not picked for this outing. 

Finally, the third universe, with the upstart, has multiple deities dropped, without any warning, into the room, on regular chairs. Chuck and Amara are sat, powers momentarily bound, in their preferred physical forms so as not to blind or otherwise harm the mortals that will, eventually, be brought here. The final one summoned is Death.

('Eventually' because, you know, the extra-dimensional beings have other shit to do. This is just a casual amusement brought on by happenstance. It shouldn't have ever happened, but it might as well, given it did.)

(And like Chaos admitted - boredom is quite the chronic problem, for those outside of reality.)

* * *

It's very simple, really. Chronos freezes time. Magic gathers his descendants, her children, and Chuck's characters into a malleable place; The Room of Requirement is more than just a casual intellectual curiosity. 

Only a few of each can perceive each other. More still are stuck in stasis. There is a delicate balance to be held, and one wrong move can destabilise all three existences in one fell swoop. To note, Death is not particularly happy about the displacement of the dead within this crossover.

(Chaos settles in, with some metaphorical popcorn and a Cheshire cat grin (that exists on at least two dimensions), because, really,  _ this should be fun.) _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to version with book text included:  
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_AuHYpz3Ux1G--C9LniXAH5CX4y4NPUmRv2er-8164s/edit?usp=sharing


	2. In Medias Res.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be longform, and given this is an RTB fic, and I've written fic around 80,000 words that remain unfinished and will probably gain another 30-40 thousand or so.... uhhhhhhhhh yeahhhhh longform... will be LONG you get me
> 
> Here's the gdrive link for the version with book text instead of paraphrasing:  
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_AuHYpz3Ux1G--C9LniXAH5CX4y4NPUmRv2er-8164s/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> Obviously this chapter doesn't have it and I'll be putting the link at the top of all new chapters, but, jic, here's the link so you can get right to the action! Please only comment on the AO3 version though. I wouldn't see the ones on gdrive so I've turned it off, and I like to respond to each and every comment i receive! Thank you for your time :) I hope you enjoy!

Ron woke up, a day like any other. The dorm window was open a crack, letting the cool high-altitude spring air into the room, dulled by the thick material of his four-poster’s curtains. A ribbit, from the direction of Neville’s bed, Trevor a natural alarm clock for the herbologist, most days. A large yawn from Ron’s right, signalling Dean’s awakening. Seamus fell out of bed with a thud and a _‘Shit, fuck, where-,’_ and - 

And why is Ron in Gryffindor Tower? 

Ron bolts upright, pushes his curtains aside, and blinks in confusion at the red-and-gold scenery laid before his eyes. 

“What the fuck?” Ron says. 

“Don’t ask me,” Seamus grumbles. “Nearly gave me a feckin’ heart attack - Heya, Harry.”

“Seamus,” Harry greets, head poking out from between his curtains, eyes unfocused due to a lack of glasses sat on his nose. “Anyone seen my glasses?”

“Oh your side table, mate,” Dean says, swinging his legs off the side of his mattress. “Blimey, how’d we get here?”

“And why’s nobody else in here?” Neville worries, chewing on his bottom lip. That was a good point, that. Why _is_ nobody else here? It’s -

Ron furrows his brows. Actually, he’s not sure what time of year it is. That should probably worry him. He’s in Hogwarts; He’s in the year seven dorm rooms, and actually, looking around, none of his shit is anywhere it should be. Ron scratches his head. Year seven. Seven years of Hogwarts, which is the school he went to, he’s pretty certain. Harry’s his best mate. He knows Seamus, he knows Dean, he knows Neville. But does he _know_ them? He thinks about it, for a minute, and comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t.

“Wait,” Harry says. “Wait. _Where_ are we?”

“Hogwarts, you dolt,” Seamus says. Harry blinks in confusion, before his face clears. “Right,” He says. “School. Which we go to…?”

The door bursts open, and a wide-eyed bushy-haired brunette with too-perfect teeth is standing in the entrance to their dorm. “Bloody hell!” Dean yelps, and rolls back onto his bed, curtains shutting with a flick of his wand. Given he’s only in his boxers, that’s a reasonable enough response. 

They must have all been pulled here straight from bed, Ron thinks, gears turning. They weren’t here before; Ron doesn’t have any clue what’s going on, or really about anything he probably should have a clue about; and that girl right there is his other best friend, Hermione Granger, but he couldn’t tell you her favourite colour or her parent’s names. 

Hell, he couldn’t tell you _his_ parent’s names, right now. That’s very worrying. Ron’s worried. 

Hermione looks between them all, eyes assessing, and seems to calm when she notes their general good health. “Right,” She says, determinedly. “We’re all meeting in the great hall.” And then she turns on her heel and walks out. 

“Ah, Hermione,” Seamus says, “Always a breath of fresh air.”

That’s sarcasm, Ron thinks, and sends a _look_ Seamus’ way. 

“I know! I know!” Seamus throws his hands up. “Or, well, I _think_ I know.” He shakes his head, perturbed. “That’s starting to really grate, that. C’mon. Don’t see why we should _dally.”_

Seamus grabs his robes from his trunk, shrugs them on, and that prompts the rest of them to get quickly dressed. The five of them trudge their way downstairs, through the castle (utilising a few secret passages Harry apparently knows about, and a couple Ron apparently knows about, which is news to both Harry and to Ron himself), and into the Great Hall, which is pretty obviously what it is. Even a guy without any solid memories would know _this._

Ron notes the children before the others do. 

“Hey, that’s _us,”_ Harry says, blinking. “Oh,” Neville says faintly, and blimey did he change the most out of all of them, over the years. Still blonde, of course (though it’s a little darker), but much taller, and his face changed quite drastically. 

“Huh,” Seamus says. “So that’s what I looked like. Scrawny git.”

Dean snorts. 

The five of them make their way over. Hermione is sat, warily, near to her younger self, whom she is eying with severe - something. Ron thinks it might be distrust. 

“I don’t like this,” She mutters to them, upon their arrival. Ginny is sat with herself, having a grand old conversation about the Holyhead Harpies, a wistful, indulgent expression on her face at little Ginny’s naive enthusiasm. Harry and Harry exchange equally bewildered looks, before turning to their respective Rons. 

“Ever heard of anything like this, before?” Harry mutters. Ron shrugs. Blimey, this is going to get confusing, even in his own head. “I wouldn’t know if I had,” Ron says, honestly, feeling a little strangely adrift. “Hermione?”

She shakes her head, looking quite put out at the fact. “I’m sure if - if I could just remember - I _must_ have read something - somewhere…” She continues muttering to herself for a minute, then sighs. “But… possibly not,” She admits. “I just… I _can’t_ know.” 

Hermione looks quite lost. Ron feels bad for her, empathises, because this - this is happening in _his_ world, to him, and he just - he can’t figure it out. He’s got no reference. 

The hall slowly fills, over the course of a couple hours. Not _much_ more, but a fair few stragglers make their way inside. People Ron recognises, and those that he doesn’t know at all. A young man around his age, equally tall, pale skin and dark hair and dark eyes, with another young man, a little older perhaps, by the way he carries himself, but with an equally - perhaps more - young face, with strawberry blonde hair on the darker (more brown-ish) side of the spectrum, green (blue?) eyes and a wary countenance. These two are people Ron keeps an eye on; out of those that enter, they seem the most dangerous. That is, until _they_ come onto the scene; a few young people, 20s at most, all varying quite wildly in appearance, but with the kind of feeling of _power_ that raises the hairs on the back of his neck and all along his arms quite _literally._ Ron shivers, as he watches them cross the room, assessing, and he notes in the background that Harry, rubbing at the back of his neck, does the same.

“Hey,” The leader of the group, a young man, 20 at most, with sea-green eyes and a perhaps unintentionally mischievous smile (the kind that says ‘i get into and out of trouble _far_ too often’, but it’s not as off-handedly malicious as the twins, or as sharp as Harry’s), nods at them. “So, we, uh…” He scratches at the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “We were wondering where we are, exactly?”

“Hogwarts,” Hermione says, simply, eyes narrowed. “Who might you be?”

“Percy,” Percy says. “Percy Jackson.”

“Anything else we can call you?” Ron asks. “Just my brother’s called Percy, too, and he’s over there,” Ron points. “Might get confusing.” And Ron realises, at this moment, that his brother Percy is indeed over there, along with his other brother, George, the prankster businessman.

The two men from earlier wander over, from where they’d hovered near the Hufflepuff table, having a small if heated disagreement. Ron’s not sure who won, because they’ve both got smiles on their faces, though he admits he trusts the shorter (but by no means short; he’s about six-foot-one, give or take) one’s expression more than the taller one’s. 

Just… something about it. Ron’s not sure what, but - something about it all the same. Ron turns his expression to the younger one. 

“Perce, I guess,” Percy says, “Grover calls me that sometimes,” Grover lifts his hand in greeting. He’s the oldest looking out of this eclectic group of people. “Purse?” The shorter of the duo says. “Uh, yeah?” Percy says, frowning at him. “Alright,” he nods. “I’m Dean Winchester, this is my little brother, Sam.” For a moment, his brow wrinkles, but it smoothes over quite quickly. Ron thinks he’s probably got the same memory issues as the rest of them.

They all glance at each other rather awkwardly. Introductions are had, and the groups disperse slightly. Ron finds himself looking at his family briefly, before he looks over to Dean, who has taken a seat on the Gryffindor table, Sam across from him. 

“So,” Dean says. He’s American, by the accent, but Ron couldn’t tell you anything more specific. He thinks it’s what people call Southern? Ron’s not been exposed to many Americans, far as he can tell. “This is some sort of… magic castle?” Dean glances between them, looking bemused. “You doing any… covert demon deals, on the down low?”

“Dean,” Sam admonishes, and Dean sighs. “Just doing my job, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes at him. 

“Demons?” Hermione says, eyebrows raising, amusement written clear on her face. “Do you happen to be Christian? Jewish? Some… form of Abrahamic?”

“Not really, no,” Dean says. “But I _do_ know about the supernatural, so you can cut the crap,” He says, pointedly. “Demon deals… tributes to pagan gods - Yay or nay?”

“Nay,” Harry says, dryly. “What’s your ‘job’?”

“It’s probably an innate thing,” Sam says, quietly. “You know, like psychics?”

“Sam,” Dean says, and Sam sighs. But Dean isn’t on the offensive, anymore. Dean smiles at them, disarming. “Saving people… the family business.” After the ‘explanation’, he relaxes onto the bench, and frowns at the empty table in front of him. “Anywhere to get food, ‘round here?” He asks. That’s a good call, actually; Ron’s starving. 

“Oh honestly,” Hermione mutters. “What is it with you people and _food?”_ She gestures to the table. “It’s at set times,” She tells him. “So you’ll just have to wait.”

“Tempus,” Dean says, the other Dean, their dean, Merlin, this is going to get confusing. “So, it’s eight, apparently.” 

Ron sighs. It _should_ be breakfast, now. He frowns at the table. 

“Maybe the House Elves are on strike?” Hermione offers, hesitantly, and Ron shares a glance of barely suppressed amusement with Harry. 

“Strike?” Seamus looks at her if she’s lost her marbles. “Really, woman?”

“House Elves?” Sam asks.

“They make the food,” Dean - _their_ Dean, really need to think of something for that - says. He pauses, and considers something. “You said your name’s Dean, right?”

“Yeah, why?” Dean frowns at Dean. “Ah, well,” Dean grins, “Pretty fun coincidence; I’m Dean Thomas. So…”

“Oh,” muggle Dean nods. “Uh, well…” He looks a bit lost, for a second, before scratching his head. “It’s fine,” magic Dean shrugs. “We’ll just use my surname. Half everyone I meet does anyway - It’s only these guys that call me Dean.” And that much was true. Part and parcel of their society; only friends and relatives call you by your given name, unless they introduce themselves otherwise, or they’ve got a sibling sitting right there with the same surname (much like Dean and Sam and Ron and Ginny are now, for example). 

“Thomas?” Dean asks. Thomas nods. Blimey, that’s going to take some getting used to; it’s been a fair few years since Ron had to refer to Dean that way, in his head. Still, it’s better than the prior confusion, right?

“Alright, that’s settled,” Hermione says, primly. “Now to gather everyone around - we need to figure out why we’re here.” There’s a good two-dozen of them there, what with their duplicates in the form of 11-year-olds on top of the unknown quantities that have wandered on inside, so ‘gathering round’ ends up ‘rearranging the tables to sit 24 with everyone able to warily keep an eye on each other.’ Ron ends up sitting with Harry on his left, Dean on his right, and Sam on Dean’s right, with Hermione on Harry’s left. To clarify, talking clockwise from Ron, with Ron at 6 o’clock, it’s like this:

Ron, Harry, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny, Hannah, Thomas, Seamus, Cho, young Ginny, young Ron, Young Harry, young Seamus, young Thomas, young Neville, young Hermione, Percy, George, Rachel, Percy, Annabeth, Nico, Sam, and then Dean, sat on Ron’s right. 

Hopefully, Percy and George would be a good buffer between these unknowns and the kids, and Rachel, at least, as the one put closest to them, seems the least dangerous of the five. 

Ron thinks he’s sat next to the more dangerous of the Winchester brothers, but that’s just instinct. Something about the way he carries himself, the slight scarring his brother doesn’t have, well-worn jeans and leather jacket, sturdy boots, strange jewelry that Ron can sense tingles with some kind of power; probably enchanted, or something akin to it, especially the necklace. Though, given Dean’s whole thing about Demons, earlier, Ron rather thinks there are only two options here; he’s a hypocrite, or he doesn’t know. Ron’s not sure which to bet on, yet. 

“So,” Hermione clears her throat, and then as if in instinctive response they all - well, Ron’s lot - shudder collectively, before frowning and shaking it off. Hermione continues. “So, I think we need to try and figure out where we were,” She says. “Backtrack.”

“How do you think we should do that?” Sam asks, genuine, leans forward on the table, arms folded, expression concerned, eyebrows pulled up and forehead wrinkled. His tone _drips_ with concern. It’s sort of laid on a little thick, Ron has to admit, but maybe it’s an American thing. Well. The other group, those five, they’re American too. They all look concerned, but not nearly to the same level… so maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s a Sam thing.

“Can’t remember anything,” Dean points out, “Can you?”

“Can _you?”_ Hermione snaps. “Yeah,” He nods. Ron feels a little jealous of that - knowing who you are, who you were, who everyone around you has been, in all of your entire lives. Right now, it seems decidedly delightful, and Ron - yeah. He’s definitely a little envious of that. 

“What do you remember?” Hermione demands.

“Motel,” Dean says, “On my way to see Sammy, here, in Stanford.”

Sam freezes. “You were?” He asks, and he doesn’t sound pleased. “Was going to tell you - and why, but it doesn’t matter now, it can wait,” Dean says. “This is more immediate, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is,” Hermione says, “Just, what else? Do you remember?”

“I was in a Motel, like I said,” Dean says. “And - look I was… tired, alright?” He shakes his head. “I passed out soon as I hit the bed. Don’t remember anything between then and waking up here.”

“You?” Hermione turns to Sam. “Do you remember anything…?”

Sam shakes his head, sighing, looking very apologetic. “Just falling asleep in the apartment,” He says. “I was really surprised when I didn’t wake up next to Jess.”

“Were you now?” Dean says, grinning. Sam sighs, gives him a _look._

“Anyway,” Hermione says, pointedly, “Does anyone else have any… recollections?”

“I don’t think this is the first time I’ve lost memories,” Perce says, shrugging. “But I’m blank, and the rest of us are, too.” The other five nod, corroborating what he says. 

“Great,” Seamus draws out. “So we’re all blank canvases, eh?”

“Looks like it,” Sam agrees, worriedly. “Well then,” Dean says, standing. “It’s been great, but I think looking around for some evidence might do us more good.”

He makes to walk off, but Harry pipes up. “You don’t know your way around,” He says. “And there’s kids, here, we can’t just leave them - when we don’t know what put us here.”

Dean turns back, looks at Harry like he’s crazy. “Who said anything about leaving the kids alone?” He asked, genuinely. “This stuff? It’s my _job,”_ He says. “And I don’t exactly have a map when I’m trying to figure things out normally, either, so I’ll be fine.”

“Saving people isn’t a profession,” Hermione snaps. 

“Well, no, you don’t get paid much,” Dean grins. “Well, actually, I get offered a lot of sex, but -”

“ _Dean,”_ Sam stresses the syllable, standing. Dean’s grin drops and he sighs. “I get by,” He says, flatly. “Come on, Sammy.”

“It’s _Sam,”_ Sam emphasises, and Dean chuckles. “Sure is, Sammy. Come on.”

“Wait,” Harry says. Ron looks at him, and they share a glance, within held a conversation; _should I? No, I will._ Harry tosses Ron the map, and Ron stands. “You might not normally have one,” He says, walking over to them, and holding it up. “But it can’t hurt, right?”

“Can’t see why not,” Dean agrees. “Go on then.” 

Ron taps the map with his wand, mutters the pass phrase, and it unfolds. Dean whistles. “Handy,” He says, grinning. He takes something out of his pocket, a little muggle-looking device of some kind, and turns it on, making a sound emit strangely from it. He frowns and shakes the thing. 

“Got ghosts here?” He asks. “Loads,” Ron says, and Dean sighs, putting it away. “Great,” He mutters. “Perfect. What kind?”

“Just… Ghosts?” Ron says. “One poltergeist, ‘cause it’s a school.”

Dean’s expression turns confused. “What?” He says. “Poltergeists don’t - what do you _think_ goes on in _schools_?” 

“Magic?” Ron gestures around them. “Mischief? Which is what a poltergeist is?”

“... Man, British monsters are _weird,”_ Dean says, shaking his head. “Alright. Ron, right?”

“Yeah,” Ron nods. “Ron.”

“Great. How’d you use that map?” Ron shows him, Sam hovering over their bent heads, looking at it upside-down. He’s about Ron’s height, maybe an inch taller. Ron’s not actually met anyone taller than himself, discounting Hagrid (whom he now knows to be taller than himself, apparently), and it’s a little surprising, because Ron’s 6 foot 4. Not many people taller than that, naturally speaking. Well, Millicent Bulstrode, but she’s got troll blood, so technically she’s discounted too, for the non-human stuff in her ancestry. (And apparently Ron knows this about her. Whoever she is.)

After that, Dean takes the lead, apparently used to it with Sam, and Ron decides to use the time to observe them. They bicker a bit about the method they should use when searching; both are pretty valid. They end up going with Dean’s first, since he’s commandeered the map, and they search floor by floor, clockwise, including through secret passages and into hidden rooms. They don’t really find anything of note, just dust and cobwebs, and Ron finds he’s deathly afraid of spiders when he sees a rather large one and freezes, momentarily, before backing away quite quickly. The brothers don’t notice, absorbed in the search, and they’re leaving the room anyway, so Ron makes sure to follow close behind. It’s slow going progress, but it is progress. Still, it’s progress towards figuring out there is no evidence to find, so it’s not really the kind of progress any of them want. 

Not that they can do anything about it. It’s better, Ron thinks, to have all the cards, even if they’re not good cards, just so you know what they are. Makes it easier to plan, to know what is and isn’t a risky gamble. 

Ron thinks he might play a lot of strategy games. Stuff like chess - oh, definitely chess. Ron likes Chess. Neat. The fuzzy memories, Ron thinks, are getting less fuzzy - at least, the stuff about himself. Not what’s happened, just, who he is, who the people around him are. Harry’s his best friend, his favourite colour is red, he hates his fame and he’s a really good seeker, and a seeker is the MVP of the vast majority of Quidditch matches, and Quidditch is Ron’s favourite sport, and Hermione doesn’t care for it because she’s kind of uppity about things she isn’t good at, and she’s scared to death of flying, much like how Ron is scared to death of spiders (though, her empathy levels on that front are a little lacking, admittedly, she has empathy in spades for other things, he thinks. Probably? That’s as far as it goes, for now, but he’s sure he’ll get more stuff later). 

“Your brain leaking anything there?” Dean asks, and Ron blinks, then looks away from the wall and over to the 26-year-old. “Nothing useful,” Ron says. Dean grimaces. “We’re coming up dry, here,” He admits. “And even if we do comb back over with Sam’s ideas in mind, I doubt we’ll come up with anything worth the effort, or the time.”

Ron has to agree.

“We have to try,” Sam says, determinedly. “Sam, sometimes you gotta call it quits,” Dean says. “And this? This is hopeless, there’s nothing here. We just need to think of something else.”

“What else, Dean,” Sam says, something seeping into his tone like - forceful exasperation? Or anger of some kind, mild and generic, not necessarily aimed at anyone, just… upset with the situation. Maybe. Ron doesn’t know him well enough to tell, but - it’s a guess as good as any, he figures. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean says, “Which is why we go back, and do what we always do. Ask. Questions. Or have you forgotten how to - do the job in the last four years?” A quick flick of his eyes in Ron’s direction before the self-correction on _how to - do the job,_ and Ron wonders what he was going to call what they do. He doesn’t have to wonder long.

“Actually, _three_ years, Dean, the last time you spoke to me was for some information on a hunt,” Sam says, sharply. Dean sighs, eyes squeezing shut, and Sam glances at Ron, winces. “Hunt?” Ron frowns at them, folds his arms. Dean grimaces. “Not what you think,” He mutters. “Saving people - hunting things, ‘the family business’,” Dean quotes. “It’s uh, in America? It’s bad. Real bad. Wendigos eating kids, ghosts killing families, entire towns going mad ‘cause a demon set foot in them bad.” He looks at Ron, expression solem, not expectant, or beseeching, just plain and honest. “We kill things that kill people,” His lips quirk up. “Like regular old vigilantes. If that turns your stomach, then I’m sorry, but we don’t have a choice.”

Sam scoffs. He turns his head away, expression now decidedly angry and certifiably mullish. 

“Well,” Dean says, allowing, “You can leave the life, if you want, like Sam here did. But it always drags you back in. And - and personally,” He looks back at Ron, “I’d rather be saving lives when I know they’re in danger, than sitting by and letting them die.”

“Right,” Ron says. He’s not sure why, but Sam’s reaction sells it; a begrudging nod, an angry tightness around the eyes - it’s the most genuinely genuine expression he’s seen so far from him. And Dean - Ron’s not sure. But he believes him, at least that Dean believes every word coming out of his mouth, not necessarily that everyone in America is out for muggle blood, just, that Dean has only come across the ones that are. 

Dean smiles. “So,” He says. “Lead the way back?” He hands over the map, a gesture of goodwill, perhaps. Ron nods, and does as requested.

* * *

"So, we know there is something going on here," The blonde American girl says, stormy grey eyes taking everyone and everything in, like she's assessing the viability of five different plans she's cooking up in her head as they speak. "And we know there's no evidence we can find as to what that something is." She looks aggravated about it, and worried. The guy on her right squeezes her shoulder, comforting, and takes over. "You guys can do magic," He says. "Can you make water? A rainbow?"

"Yes," Neville says, slowly. "Why?"

"We might have a way to contact... someone," Perce's eyebrows furrow, and his eyes flick, a sign he's trying to remember something. "It's called an Iris message."

Nico, the youngest of the quintet, speaks up. "I've tried to get out of here," He says, "I can - teleport, to put it simply. And it doesn't work. I step into a shadow, and I come out somewhere else in the castle, even though I know I was aiming at MacDonald's."

"Mac-what?" Hannah mutters, glancing at Neville, who shrugs. "Never mind that," Hermione interrupts, frowning at the black-haired adolescent, who Hannah's pretty sure is called 'Nico', but she wasn't there for the introductions. In fact, only her magical peers could see her until they'd all sat down; it'd been kind of a shock for those that noticed, her suddenly appearing in her seat. Same for Cho, actually. "What matters is - what matters is that we can't leave. We'll try the... iris message."

Hermione stands and walks over to one of the windows, through which beams of light shine. "Aguamenti," She says, and water erupts from her wand. "Nice," Perce says, as Annabeth stands. He passes her a coin, golden like a galleon but different in size and design, as she heads over to Hermione. "Uhm," Annabeth hesitates, before clearing her throat, and she's clearly struggling to remember how to do... whatever it is she's trying to do. "Percy?" She says, and Perce looks at the water, frowning. "Yeah?" "I need mist," She says. "I don't know - can you...?"

Perce presses his lips together, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "I don't think so?" He offers. Annabeth sighs. "Can you... heat this up?" She asks, gesturing to Hermione. "I need to keep this going," Hermione says. Water is, by now, pooling at their feet. "I'll heat it," Cho says, standing, and walks over to do so. Mist is created through steam, and a rainbow shimmers into existence within it. Annabeth throws the coin into the rainbow, then says "Oh Iris, goddess of the Rainbow, please accept my offering."

There's a flickering, like static. The message breaks through, but the - connection, as it were, looks fuzzy and unstable. "Anna-" The person's voice cuts out, and the image flickers before settling on something else entirely. 

" **_Your questions will be answered once everyone has arrived_ **," A voice says, and Hannah feels as if she's suddenly stuck in a petrificus totalus, for all that she can move. Her breathing slows and her eyes freeze on the image of the... man... in the message. The man continues talking, but it's in a different language - Hannah can't make heads or tails of it, though Annabeth and the other four Americans seem to be doing just fine, when it comes to understanding him. They look pale - very pale, like the... man is - like the man is some kind of excessively powerful person, like You Know Who times five billion. 

Whoever 'You Know Who' is. Hannah doesn't, for the record. He must be scary, though, or she wouldn't have made the comparison. 

The message cuts out, and leaves behind total silence.

"Who was that?" Cho says, quietly, looking very spooked. "I don't..." Annabeth, for the first time, looks entirely off-kilter, lost and uncertain, and it's clear she's decidedly uncomfortable with that. "I don't _know,"_ She stresses the last word, the _know,_ as if to say it is entirely unusual for her not to know something. Perce stands and walks over. Hermione cuts the aguamenti, and the sound of rushing water halts immediately. Perce's shoes slap against the wet stone as he approaches the three women. 

"So," He says. "What now?"

"We wait," A voice says from the entrance, and it's the other two Americans. "Not much else we _can_ do," He says. It's the taller of the two. "Bastard's messing with us," The younger grouses. "But Sam's right. We're just gonna have to sit tight for a bit. Maybe plan out those questions he says we'll get answers for."

That wasn't a bad call. Hannah nods in agreement. 

"I think the why is important," She says, softly. "Knowing what his goal is with all this... it's paramount. Right?" Hannah glances between the others. Cho nods in agreement, and she's not the only one to do so. "Good call," The shorter one says, offering a friendly smile. _Boy,_ he's pretty. Hannah's not called a guy pretty before - most guys she knows are some degree of average, handsome, _eh_ , or fit, and sure he's fit, but he's - pretty. Decidedly. Like one of those muggle moovy-stars, or that one member of the Weird Sisters. 

"Well, if we get the 'why', then the 'what' should also be asked for," Hermione says. "What has happened - what he did, whether this is... really Hogwarts or - or some kind of magical construct."

"Well, it's Hogwarts, right?" Ron says. "We can't teleport out, that's a Hogwarts thing. Hell, maybe we should... look for the room of requirement?"

"Hmm." Hermione tilts her head, considering. "Might be an idea..."

"Well, I'm starving," Ron says, "And it's - 'bout lunch time. So, I'm going t' go check if the kitchens are where they should be."

"You got kitchens?" The pretty Winchester asks. "Where do you think we get the food from?" Harry says, rhetorically. " _'Course_ we got kitchens."

"I don't know, you're magic, can't you just conjure it up?" Dean scoffs. "Can't be _that_ useful if you can't make _food."_

"One of the laws," Hermione says primly, "Is that magic cannot make food. It's..." She trails off. "It's..."

Hermione scowls. "I can't remember," She sighs. "But it's one of the laws. I know that much."

"All in favour of going to find the kitchens?" Cho pipes up, glancing around. A few hands raise; Perce's, and Grover's, Ron's, Dean's, Harry's, Cho's, and Ginny's. 

"What?" Ginny says, looking at Hermione. "If we don't find food, and we're here for a while, we'll starve, Hermione. Come on." She stands. Hannah decides that's more than enough people, so she doesn't volunteer to go along with them. 

"Well, while you're doing that," Sam says, glancing at Dean's retreating back with a vaguely exasperated expression, "We'll try and brainstorm some stuff, alright Dean?"

Dean gestures vaguely in a 'yeah, sure, whatever' kind of way. "Jerk!" Sam calls after him. 

"Bitch!" Dean says in response, as the great hall doors close behind him, the last to exit. 

"Should'a volunteered," Seamus grumbles, then, "So. Brainstorming?"

"Yeah," Sam nods. "I've been thinking a few things. A pagan god could have done this."

Annabeth blinks. "You're closer than you realise," She admits. "The 'man' in the message - I think, I think I know who it was."

"Who?" Sam turns his full attention to her, expression concerned. "How dangerous is he?"

"I know my mother is Greek," Annabeth says, "And that I speak Greek. _Ancient_ Greek."

There's a pause. Sam's eyebrows furrow.

"You're saying..." Cho says, slowly. "Gods? Greek Gods?" Hermione scoffs, loudly. " _Gods_ don't exist! There's no proof!"

"Hermione, you have _magic,"_ Cho stresses, "Where do you think it came from?"

Hermione frowns at her. "Magic might as well be a law of the universe, like gravity. It's proven, it's provable - there's a science to it, or arithmancy wouldn't work-"

"-Arithmancy is _divination,_ Hermione - it's _literally_ just numbers-based future-predicting _guesswork-"_

"-It's _Maths!_ It's logical and it's not _divination,_ Divination is a wooly, useless subject-"

"-Divination is not _useless,_ divining things isn't _just_ for the future - it helps you _find_ things - ever heard of _scrying-"_

"Guys!" 

Cho and Hermione stop arguing, to look over at Neville. "It's," He hesitates, glancing between the two women, "Not really the time for that?" He looks over at Annabeth. "You're - you're _sure_ he's a god?"

"I don't know - what else he could be," Annabeth says. "I think he's - Chronos. Not Kronos, not the titan, the other one. Chronos, the primordial god of Time."

"First generation of divine beings," Nico says, grimly. "Far more powerful and dangerous than anything else to have existed."

Hannah takes a deep, shaky breath. Alright. Okay. "So the... the original god of Time is... toying with us?" She asks, practically _praying_ to Merlin that he's _not._

"Maybe," Annabeth says, with a sigh. She brushes her blonde hair out of her face, then frowns, tugging at it. "Anyone got a hair tie?" She asks. "Ginny usually has a few bobbles," Luna says, serenely, "She plays Quidditch, after all... you could ask for one when she returns."

"Right," Annabeth says. "Okay. Yeah."

There's silence, for a few minutes, as they absorb the idea that one of the original most powerful beings to ever have existed is now, currently, spending his time toying with them in particular, for reasons that are, at this moment, beyond them.

* * *

Turns out both Dean and Harry can cook, Ginny cannot, Ron knows how to use magical cooking appliances and has to give both Dean and Harry a quick crash course, while Cho gives one to Grover and Perce. 

The House Elves are all gone, which explains the lack of food at breakfast. It's lunch - or nearing it, anyway, so they kind of need to make _something._ Dean's winging an American pie recipe with magical British tools and ingredients, while Harry's making a muggle stir-fry. Ron makes some sandwiches, because most people like those. 

Cho's cooking up some duck. "Might as well diversify the meal selection," She jokes with a smile, and nods to Dean's meal. "Since he's making something American - I'll do some Chinese."

Sounds good to Ron. "So you _are_ Chinese, I was right," Dean says, "Take that, Sammy."

"Well, I'm Scottish," Cho grins. "And technically my name's been anglicised - but yeah. My dad's a Chinese pureblood, not that it matters, and my mother's of Chinese descent, but she's Scottish, born and bred."

Dean nods along. "Anglicised?" He asks. "Well," Cho says, "I mean, you probably know Chang should go first, since it's the family name. And Cho is the closest to how my given name should sound, but it's written Q-i-u.[ Qiu](https://www.howtopronounce.com/qiu)."

Oh. Huh.

"Tchu?" Dean tries.

"Close enough," She says. "But Cho's what I use here. It's easier - no Brit's going to look at Qiu and see what it should _actually_ be pronounced like. They'd _probably_ go Key-ooh, which... no."

She laughs, shaking her head. Dean grins in response to her amusement. "So, yeah." She nods, decisively. "Cho."

Dean inclines his head in understanding. That's that for that topic; their conversation turns to food, since that's the task at hand. Ron returns his attention to his sandwiches. Quite a few variations, but some simple ones like ham and cheese, just in case. 

Dean finishes his pie pretty quickly, and then moves onto some other food. "Anyone fucking... rabbit food people, or what?" Dean asks, as he makes what is presumably a meat free meal. That reminds Ron to make a salad, so he does. 

"Oh, the veggie-only types? Not that I know of," Ginny says, swinging her legs from her position sat on a table. "I'm guessing you do, though?"

"Sam," Dean says, shrugging one shoulder. "There a blender 'round here?"

"No, but we can use magic for that," Ginny says, dropping down. "And I can make a _smoothie._ It practically requires you to mess it up."

"Not really," Dean grins. "But sure. Grab a container, would you?"

Ginny does. Dean drops a bunch of healthy shit in there, and then Ginny taps it with her wand, says the spell, and it all starts churning up together.

"Useful, that," Dean comments, before returning to the food he's making. "No kidding," Ginny says, smiling. "You're making a lot for one guy."

"You kidding?" Dean says. "If he's gonna eat this shit he might as well eat enough of it. And, besides, need to make sure there are some leftovers, for the kids. In case they're hesitant while we're eating, ya know. And none of 'em had breakfast, which is just _wrong_."

Ginny's smile softens. "Right, yeah," She says. "Hey, budge over," She nudges Ron. "I can make a _salad._ You do some potatoes or something."

Ron moves aside, goes to one of the pantries and grabs a sack of potatoes, wanders over to one of the free ovens and hobs, then starts making some various kinds of potato-based dishes. Jacket (with various kinds of fillings), new, roast, chips, et cetera. 

Just so you know - Ron's pretty sure he's used to helping out in the kitchen, not doing this stuff on his own, but he's managing just fine in that regard. He's a little proud of himself, and he finds that cooking is kind of fun, all told. 

A few minutes pass, then the two other Americans who accompanied them, who have been chatting quietly and paying little attention to their prior conversation, start addressing the room proper. 

"We really are making a feast, huh?" Perce says, grinning. The food he's making is blue. Ron's pretty sure Cho charmed it for him. "I mean, I guess there are a lot of us."

"Blaah!" Grover... _bleats,_ clearly a laugh but also clearly a strange sound for a human to make. "You guess, Percy? There's - twenty-four of us, last I counted, and Chronos said we'd be doing right to expect _more_ as the day passes!"

Perce shrugs. "Wait and see on that front," Dean says, "He could be messing with us - Gods like to do that."

Grover bleats again. "You don't say!" He seems very agitated. In his hands he holds what looks like a muggle drinks can - Coca-Cola, if Ron's not mistaken. Ron's not sure where he got that from. His suspicions, of which Ron has many, are mounting. 

Ron's sure this _is_ Hogwarts. But he's not sure it's _Hogwarts_ , if that makes sense. He thinks they're inside Hogwarts - but... the Room of Requirement can do a lot of things, can't it? Ron's figuring - with a bit more mojo, thanks to an ancient, powerful, Primordial being... it might be capable of more than they've seen before. Whatever it is actually able to do, Ron's not certain. Those memories haven't come back yet. 

Not that _any_ memories have come back yet. It's more like knowledge. Like Ron _knows,_ objectively, but he doesn't _remember,_ doesn't have most of the feelings attached to the awareness, or the context surrounding it. It's strange, decidedly so. Ron hopes he recovers from it soon. 

But, anyway: it's just guesswork. He could be completely, entirely wrong, but Ron gets the feeling that he isn't.

* * *

Harry’s having a very weird day. 

He walked through the doors to the Great Hall, as instructed by Profesor McGonagall, the deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which is the boarding school for  _ wizards  _ that  _ Harry now attends.  _

It’s all still a bit bizarre. Harry’s half expecting to wake up in his cupboard at some point, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s just that not much of this had been very believable to start with, and now he was just supposed to accept there being  _ older copies of himself and his classmates  _ just sitting around a table in an empty Hogwarts, along with,  _ apparently,  _ Greek Gods and  _ Demons? _

Should Harry have gone to Sunday service? Are Demons a thing? Is Hell a thing? Harry is all of eleven years old, he should not be having a religious crisis. But if Pagan Gods exist, he doesn’t see why Demons existing isn’t evidence for God, as in, CofE. 

Ron doesn’t seem to think Demons are a thing. Hermione said very frankly that though her father is ethnically Jewish, they aren’t practicing, because  _ no proof for God exists! Just look at Evolution! At science! We know what’s out in space, the world orbits the sun, we don’t  _ **_need_ ** _ the  _ **_idea_ ** _ of a  _ **_higher being_ ** _ to comfort us from the fear of the unknown anymore! _

Lots of big ideas for a kid, Harry thinks. But it’s not like Harry himself is major-leagues religious, either. 

_ Anyway. _

Harry walked through the doors to the Great Hall, and found himself, along with a few of the other first years, and Ginny Weasley, Ron’s little sister, standing around in an empty room during the daytime, bright early-morning sunlight shining down onto uncluttered, unpopulated wooden tables.

You could have heard a pin drop.

As it stands now, the room is a lot fuller. Hermione and Ginny’s older selves, along with a woman called Cho and two men, Percy and George, who are definitely Ron’s older brothers but look a lot older than they should do, came by first. Everyone started trickling in after that. And now they’re all sat around the table, coming up with ideas for questions to ask Chronos, the literal God of Time.

Harry is  _ definitely  _ dreaming. This is  _ ridiculous.  _ Even Dudley wouldn’t buy this as a plotline, let alone actual, real-life events that are  _ actually occurring,  _ supposedly. That’s just going too far into crazy territory, and Harry’s  _ not crazy.  _

Maybe.

He should have known it’s too good to be true.

He’s going to wake up, day after his birthday, in a broken hovel on a rock in the ocean, Uncle Vernon having lost the plot, and he’s definitely going to wish he hadn’t, but it’s  _ going  _ to happen. Because this can’t be real, it just can’t be. 

Harry’s got a healthy enough imagination, no thanks to the Dursleys, but this is just  _ stupid.  _ And Harry’s not stupid. Hopefully. 

“This is not happening,” Harry mutters to himself.

“Think it might be,” Ron replies, hushed. “I’ve never heard of anything like this but… I mean, with magic, anything’s possible, really.”

That’s not reassuring. 

“Do you really think… that it’s a God? Chronos?” Harry asks, keeping his voice level with a whisper. Ron responds in kind. “Yeah, maybe,” He says. “I mean… a lot of wizards, not all, but a lot, do believe in something. Magic… it’s magic. Where else would it come from?” He shrugs. “Some believe in Magic, like, as a god or a goddess itself, or just a - uh, ‘high concept’? It’s a bit confusing.” He grimaces. “Some believe in the pagan stuff. Samhain, Yule, you know. And some believe in God. That Abraham stuff.” 

Harry nods. He guesses it makes sense.

“People just don’t like muggle religion,” Ron says. “‘Cause of the witch burnings. Didn’t do much damage to us, mind, mostly just to themselves, but… the intention was there. Right?”

Yeah. Attempted genocide tends to ruffle feathers. 

“Alright,” Annabeth, the blonde (female) american, nods decisively. “So that’s that, then?”

“Yep, “ Perce shrugs. “Long as no-one else has any ideas?”

No volunteers.

“Great,” Hermione - the older one - sighs. “So… now we wait.”

“Now we wait,” Sam echoes. 

* * *

It’s early afternoon, around half-one, when it happens.

There’s a noise, like a crash, and then the Great Hall doors burst open.

“Fred!” 

George blinks at his twin. There’s something odd, here, his head, fuzzy like everything else to do with memory has been. He feels a mixture of sick and relieved when he catches sight of his brother. It’s weird. There’s nothing he can do about it, though, so George pushes it to the side for now. 

Fred drops onto the bench next to him, between him and Rachel. 

“Hello, brother o’mine,” He grins. He looks over to Rachel, holds out his hand. “Fred Weasley,” He says, “Charmed, of course.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, but shakes his hand. “Rachel Elizabeth Dare,” She says. “I’m psychic. You?”

“Wizard,” Fred grins. “Businessman, prankster, fun to be around, the more handsome twin-”

“Arrogant,” Percy chimes in. “Not as smooth as he thinks… irresponsible… somewhat callous…”

“You  _ wound  _ me, Percy,” Fred says, “Really. You slander my name in front of a Lady?” Rachel scoffs. 

“I give her a balanced view of your personality,” Percy says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What took you so long, anyway, brother o’mine?” George asks. Fred shrugs.

“I woke up here,” Fred says. “No memory, which was very entertaining, let me tell you.” 

“Yeah, that’s all of us,” Rachel says, gesturing to everyone sat at the table. “I-”

Another crash, and the doors burst open again.

“Sirius-” Remus cuts himself off. “Harry!” He says. 

“Professor!” Hermione says, seeming pleased. “Hermione,” Remus replied, warmly. “Ron - all of you, it’s good to see you well.” Various voices return the sentiment. “Does anyone happen to have any idea what has occurred here?” Remus continues, after everyone’s greeted each other. 

Shared glances between the groups at the table. 

“That would be a no, then,” He says with a sigh. Remus takes a place at the table, between Harry and Hermione, as Sirius sits between him and Harry. Tonks is here too; she sits down beside Remus, on his left, offering a smile at those to her left. “Wotcher, guys,” She greets. 

“Tonks,” Ginny says, with a smile. 

“So. What’s with the duplicates?” Tonks asks, gesturing to the kids. Ginny shrugs. “At a guess,” She says, “We’re being messed with.”

“That’s usually the case,” Tonks says, with humour. “By who?”

“Chronos,” Annabeth’s tone is incredibly serious. “The primordial god of Time.”

“Oh.” Tonks presses her lips together, her bubble-gum pink hair dimming slightly. “Well.” 

“Are you… certain?” Remus asks. Sirius tilts his head, equally inquisitive. “Yes,” Annabeth says. “Positive. We saw him.”

“You know what he looks like?” Sirius questions, disbelieving. 

Annabeth’s shoulders straighten, affronted. Grover speaks up, probably to try and keep things calm. “It’s not that, exactly,” He bleats, clearly uncomfortable. “More that his power is so - overpoweringly intense that it’s hard to  _ not  _ know who he is.”

“Ah.” Remus grimaces. “Well then.”

Grover nods, looking disquieted. 

“So, I guess this is what he meant by ‘more people’,” Harry says. His shoulders have relaxed slightly, now there’s a decisive advantage on their field, at least in terms of numbers. And since it’s Sirius and Remus and Tonks, probably the only three adults he trusts.

Well. Not that Harry isn’t an adult these days too, but you catch what George means, right? 

George looks at his twin. That feeling is still there, no matter how much he tries to push it aside. He’s got the instinct to just keep looking at him; like George hasn’t seen his face in a long time, at least not outside of a mirror. It’s strange, and it makes his brain come to conclusions George is very much not fond of. At all. 

There’s really only one thing that could mean George wouldn’t have seen anything of Fred around for what feels like an age. And that’s  _ death _ . 

He doesn’t like the implication of his bad feelings, is all. 

Percy clears his throat. “Do you happen to remember anything?” He asks. 

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s a blank,” He says, tapping the side of his head. “Not completely,” Remus corrects. “We have, of course, knowledge of who we are, who people are to us, and other such things,” He says, and then sighs, shaking his head. “But no  _ memories.  _ A very strange form of amnesia, for certain.”

Percy nods. 

“So we’re stuck waiting,” Nico concludes, looking vaguely disgruntled, for a moment, before his expression clears deliberately. 

“Pretty much,” Perce agrees, commiserating, though his countenance is a lot more relaxed than it has any right to be, given the situation. He’s not in his alma mater of 7 years, surrounded by allies. It’s just him, and four others. Not a particularly enviable amount of friends to have in your corner, given there’s twenty-seven-

The doors open.

George sighs.  _ Thirty-one.  _ Keeping up a total is getting a little annoying, because there’s a rather abusrd amount of people here, now. They extend the table, as the four take their seats among the Greek Americans. 

“Nico,” The dark-skinned golden-eyed girl says, looking relieved. She’s the youngest of the new group. “Hazel,” He says, and makes space for her on the bench beside him. She’s followed by a guy named Frank, one named Jason, and then a girl; Piper. 

So, from George clockwise, the seating arrangement is thus:

George, Fred, Rachel, Perce, Annabeth, Nico, Hazel, Frank, Jason, Piper, The Winchesters (younger then older), Ron, Harry, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny, Hannah, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Cho Chang, his ickle sister, Ronniekins, Harrykins, Finnegan-the-younger, Thomas-the-younger, Longbottom-the-younger, ickle Granger, and then Percy, situated on George’s right. 

“Alright, that better be-” 

The door opens again. Groans can be heard coming from those seated, for a variety of reasons. One of them being who it is that appears from the Entrance Hall.

“Malfoy,” Everyone who knows who he is scowls at him. He scowls right back. 

“Why is  _ he  _ here?” Ginny complains. Malfoy does not join the table. He has a bench and a table all to himself, because nobody likes nor trusts him enough to sit next to the berk. 

“Alright,” Hermione says, impatiently, “Now  _ that  _ better be it,” She says, shooting a glare in Malfoy Jr’s direction. He folds his arms and sneers right back.

“What do you remember?” Harry demands, expression stony. Malfoy glares at him, then smirks. “I’m not telling  _ you,  _ Potter,” He says, aloof, as if this is some kind of win, something he’s holding over them.

“Right, okay, nothing then,” Hermione dismisses, and turns her attention towards far more deserving things. 

Not that there’s much else to do than antagonise Malfoy, of course. They end up just conversing among themselves for a few hours, nothing else to do but wait.

* * *

With supper arrives the final two pieces of the puzzle. 

Annabeth was right to be wary.

Chronos steps out of thin air, like most Gods are wont to do, a woman who reminds Annabeth somewhat of Hecate by his side. She releases his arm, and the throne from the table at the top of the room appears beneath her as she sits at the 'head' of the table, between Sam and Dean. 

Chronos walks over to the blonde wizard, the one that everyone else seems to hate, and sits at the table across from him. He looks very nervous, suddenly, which Annabeth thinks he should do, and more. That's _Chronos._ They should all be running in the other direction... 

Not that they could. But still. They should be _trying,_ at least. 

Percy places a hand on her elbow, discrete, offering comfort. Annabeth sighs, grateful, and places her hand on his knee beneath the table. She squeezes, lightly. They'll get through this. They always do. 

"So," The woman says, cheerfully, beaming at them all. "It's great to finally meet you!"

Vaguely unexpected. Annabeth frowns at her, suspicions mounting. 

"Shall we do introductions?" She asks, and carries on without waiting for an affirmation. "I'm Magic. Yes, _the_ Magic, as in, the fundamental law of your universe. And just one Deity of this crossover," She adds, as an afterthought, "But that's how these things go. You guys are lucky," She adds, "It's rare a crossover is a parallel universe, let alone a parallel crossover that bisects another universe entirely to create _another_ crossover universe - which is the one we're in, by the way," She explains, as if those words make any sense in any situation. Annabeth processes the information, regardless, though. It might make more sense, later.

"Anyway," Magic adds, looking at Chronos, who's expression is vaguely disapproving. "It's just great to meet you. I hardly ever get to know my kids," She smiles, warmly. There's a vague memory in Annabeth's head - well, not memory, but awareness...

"She looks like Hestia," Percy says, quietly. "Goddess of Home and Hearth," Annabeth murmurs. Quite. It's a little odd, since she's more Hecate than the ex-Olympian. 

"Oh, she's my favourite!" Magic says, cheerfully. "Such a nice woman. Much better than her siblings. Uh, anyway," She adds, hurriedly, at Chronos' expression, "It's time for those questions you should have prepared," She nods, decisively. "But! We can only answer three."

"Three?" Hermione raises her eyebrows. "Wh-"

"Why did you bring us here?" Ginny says, quickly, interrupting the brunette. A good thing, because she nearly just wasted one of the questions. 

"A great question!" Magic says cheerfully. "I can't say! But I can say what we brought you here to do, which is basically an admission of purpose, too, so, it goes like this: You're here, to experience through a variety of mediums, the events of each other's lives! How exciting is that?" She looks very pleased.

There's a pause. 

Magic's smile dims. "You don't seem pleased..." She hedges. "Maybe - okay, I'll explain more. First up, we're going to read some books," She waves a hand, and in front of her land seven novels. " _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?"_ Sam reads, not a question, just confused.

Harry jolts in his seat, and his eyes sharpen on the books in front of the Concept. "Yep," Magic nods. "Our first task is reading about Harry's life," She gestures to the kids, "So as to prepare them for their future. A clarification," She adds, at their expressions, "Their future is not your past. It's to do with how crossovers work, but it's very complicated. Just know that the events of the books didn't happen to you," She points at the older wizards, "It's going to happen to them," She points at the children, "If you don't learn anything from reading the books, and they don't change anything once they get back into their own timestream," She shrugs, delicately. "It makes sense, I promise."

It did, Annabeth thinks, make some kind of twisted sense. The older versions of the children were not simply older versions, but entirely separate if similar people who share the same names, personalities, and many of the same feelings and knowledge, but none of the same memories, and certainly none of the same destinies. Parallel universes. The older wizards are from this 'crossover' universe, and Annabeth assumes the children are from the original, it just so happens that since the 'parallel' universes overlap and bisect another, the Deities have been able to... mess with things in a way you may not, with a normal universe.

"Exactly!" Magic grins at Annabeth. Her blood runs cold; she can read minds? 

Magic tilts her head. "Yeah," She says. "Sorry. But you're right."

Everyone looks a little confused, so Annabeth repeats the conclusions she came to in her head.

"So, don't think of them as yourselves," Magic adds. "Think of them as your siblings. Related, but not the same. Right? Right." She nods. "So. Who volunteers?"

"What?" Percy stares at her. "Now?"

"Now," Magic says, cheerfully. "We have two questions left," Hermione protests.

"Oh, right," Magic nods. "Go on then."

"Where are we?" Hermione asks. "Hogwarts," Magic smiles, secretive. "One left."

They grimace at each other.

"Are we all gonna end up dead because of this?" Percy asks, like the Seaweed Brain he is. 

Well. To be fair, it isn't a horrible question. They do usually end up with portents of doom and all that from this sort of thing. Gods. Bad for your health. 

"Hopefully not!" Magic says, cheerfully. "So! Volunteers?"

Harry looks very put upon. "Since it's my life?" He says. "Why not."

"Great!" Magic floats the first book over to him. "Go on," She smiles. "We'll read for a couple hours." She claps her hands, and the table fills with food. "I heard you had a very full lunch, but you shouldn't go to bed with an empty stomach!"

Harry grimaces at the book as he opens it. Ron's plating his food for him, which is nice of the guy. Annabeth sneaks one of Percy's fries, and keeps her eyes on Harry. 

Harry looks around, sighs, clearly reluctant. He balances the a4-sized book on the edge of the table, and starts to read.

"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Chapter One: _T_ _he Boy Who Lived._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the entry for Qiu on behind the name:  
> https://www.behindthename.com/name/qiu
> 
> Please yell at me if I did this wrong, I'm trying to do right by our girl, but I'm not Chinese or of Chinese descent, so I have approximately 0% of an idea natively speaking about how her name should go, so. Internet research isn't always accurate, please correct any and all mistakes you find in my writing on that regard.
> 
> Also: this chapter was finished the day of postage, idk why the date is always wrong on these things.


	3. Puer Qui Vixit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One; The Boy Who Lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full text link:  
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_AuHYpz3Ux1G--C9LniXAH5CX4y4NPUmRv2er-8164s/edit?usp=sharing

> _ “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.” _

Harry’s tone is as dry as the Sahara Desert. Whoever these Dursley people are, the guy doesn’t like them. And, realy, judging by that description, Dean likely wouldn’t either. 

The woman calling herself Magic huffs in annoyance. “As boring as they seemed, then,” The pink haired lady comments, shaking her head. Harry’s lips twitch, as he inclines his head in confirmation. “More,” He says. “Uncle Vernon doesn’t believe in things like ‘imagination’ or ‘excitement’.”

George and his twin shudder dramatically at that. “Heresy,” Not-George says, shaking his head in disappointment.

The little kid version of Harry looks very uncomfortable, Dean notes. Given this is about his life, Dean doesn’t blame him; the idea of having his memories and all the rest written down on paper and published to the masses, or even just to a single person not himself, feels very invasive, a violation of privacy and a denial of, in some ways, agency, at least in terms of what you yourself would be willing to tell another person about the things that have happened to you.

Dean resolves to keep an extra eye on the kid, just in case.

> Harry explains who the Dursleys are; Mr. Dursley runs a firm called Grunnings, and Mrs. Dursley spends a lot of her time spying on the neighbours. There's a third Dursley, Dudley, who is their son, and in their decidedly unhumble opinion, there is no finer boy to be found, anywhere. 

This sounds like it’s written for kids, Dean thinks. It’s been a long time since he read anything ‘children’s fiction’ related, though, so he can’t be entirely certain. Dean isn’t the kind of person to be snobbish about what he reads, however; not much else to do on the road, when Dad’s driving and doesn’t want the radio or his cassette collection playing as background noise. You’d probably be surprised by the sorts of things Dean reads. Sam usually is. 

“I’m guessing he’s not the nicest kid, then,” Perce comments. 

“Nail on the head,” Harry says, then continues. 

> The Dursleys are happy in their life, according to them, but as all surface-level 'perfect' families do, they have a secret, a secret they obviously fear (as anyone who has a secret does) being found out. This secret happens to be another family, related to them through Petunia, who is the sister of Lily Potter. Lily Potter has a husband, and a son, and these three people are as unDursleyish as it is possible to be, so much so it makes the Dursleys very nervous about how their peers in the 'normal' world would percieve Petunia's relations. Additionally, because of how unDursleyish the Potters are, the Dursleys don't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

Loud protests can be heard from the Wizards, and to be fair, Dean isn’t feeling very friendly things towards these Dursley people.  _ Mixing with a child like that.  _ What year is this, 1953?

“Bloody hell,” Ron grumbles. “They really are the worst sort of muggles, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, with a sigh.  _ Muggles  _ does not sound like a particularly flattering word, and also doesn’t really display what it means all that clearly.

“What’s a muggle?” Sam asks, tilting his head. 

“Non-magical people,” Hermione says. “Like you, or my parents.” She pauses. “Apparently,” The bushy-haired brunette adds, sounding vaguely disgruntled. Yeah, that memory thing has got to suck ass, Dean thinks. 

“Huh.” Sam leans back. “Interesting.”

Dean can tell he does find it interesting, in a sense, but Sam - well, Sam went to Stanford for a reason. A normal life. This stuff is all kind of the opposite of that, and it’s not the kind of important thing that would get Sam to leave for a little while and return to the life, like what Dean was going to Stanford to collect him for in the first place would be. This is… forced. Sam’s not had a choice in the matter, and he’s looking for silver linings. Guy likes to know stuff, so he’s doing his whole research thing, distracting himself from the probably mounting anger. Sam doesn’t like his agency being ignored. Part and parcel of why he and Dad butted heads all the time, before he absconded to Stanford and left Dean with Dad. 

Not that Dean resents him for that, or anything, that would be stupid. Sam got what he wanted, and Dean’s still helping people. Dean goes on hunts alone these days, mostly, anyway, has done pretty much since Sam left at 17 and didn’t look back. Dad’s always thought Dean was competent enough for it, after all, it’s just that someone had to look after Sammy, so once he was out of the picture, it made things… easier. In a way. Dad thought that Sam was perfectly safe at Stanford, gloated about his son’s accomplishments to his hunter pals, and Dean did what Dean’s always done. Kept in contact with Sam for about a year, maybe a little less, just in case, but Stanford really did seem free of all the things Dean knows to be out there, hiding in the dark. There was no real reason for him to keep hanging around, even with the genuine need for help with research, because two heads are always better than one, but - look, it wasn’t like Sam wanted him hanging around, anyway. Sam didn’t want people knowing he had a brother. It was just easier that way, safer, less questions asked - it’s not like Dean’s always doing things on the right side of the law, which is exactly what Sam was there to study. Well, maybe. Dean’s still not sure what kind of Lawyer Sam wanted to be. Never got a straight answer about that. 

Well, whatever.

> It's a dull, grey Tuesday, and when Mr. Dursley wakes up, he picks out his most boring tie as he gets ready for work, while Mrs. Dursley gossips and wrestles Dudley into his high chair. There is nothing about the day to suggest that odd things would soon be occurring all across Great Britain.

“Lovely,” Pink-haired lady - Dean thinks someone called her Tonks? - says sarcastically.

“Such a delightful child,” Dog-star name guy continues, with the same tone of voice. 

“He is a baby, Sirius,” The prematurely greying 30-something sitting between those two reminds them, vaguely chiding. “Babies tend to be… loud.”

“Sure,” Harry says, “But this is Dudley. ‘Loud’ probably means ‘thwacking his mum in the face repeatedly. Hard.’”

Remus inclines his head. “You would know,” He acquiesces. 

“I would,” Harry agrees, then continues. 

> _ “None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.” _

“Owls are nocturnal,” Dean blurts out, frowning. 

“That is strange,” Annabeth agrees. “I wonder…?”

“We use Owls for mail,” Ron says, tone vaguely awkward as he pipes up with an explanation. “Magic doesn’t, uh, work with technology very well. So, we have other methods to get stuff to each other. Uh, ‘fellytones’ don’t work in most magical residences - too much… stuff. In the air.”

“Oh, honestly,” Hermione says. “ _ Telephones,  _ Ron.”

“Right,” He nods, gesturing to her. “That.”

“And it’s not  _ exactly  _ stuff in the air,” Percy adds, “But that is a good enough way to explain it to muggles. Magic is like…” He pauses. “Like a... radiation, I think dad explained it once?”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “Like radiation. Or… like a signal? That messes with muggle signals. So stuff doesn’t work the same. But you can enchant muggle stuff to work in magical places, so there are ways around it. But it’s complicated.”

“Very,” Percy agrees. 

“So we use owls,” Cho concludes. “Because it’s easier. And they know where you want to send your mail without the need for directions or anything, just write the person’s name and they can figure it out from there. It’s not as convenient - no instant communication that way - but it works, and witches,” Her lips twitch, “well, we’re not known for innovation. Most of us are still stuck in the 1300s, let alone the 1600s, which was the actual year we split from muggle society. 20th century? Nowhere  _ near  _ that, yet. Give us another millenia.”

“Oh.” Dean says.

“Huh.” Sam says. 

“Twent _ ieth  _ century?” Annabeth’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. Dean pauses. Wait, yeah,  _ Twentieth?  _ It’s the 21st. 2005. 

There’s a pause.

“Uh,” Cho blinks, slowly. “Yes?”

Hermione frowns. “Wait, what year is it?” She demands, turning her head towards Magic.

“Uh…” Magic grins, “All of the above? We’re in a bubble. And some of you are from different times… uh, say, Dean was born in 1979,” She points at Dean. “And Nico was born in 19- actually that would be a spoiler, uh,” She glances around, “Uh, Jason, Jason was born in 1994.” She shrugs, lightly, “But you’ve all been taken from when you were around the same age so it’s a little less, like, disparate? So you can all understand each other easier.”

“Huh,” Sam leans forward on the table. “So, some of us are peers, and some of us are nowhere near that?”

“Yep!” Magic grins. “Take yourself for example - 1984. You’re younger than Ginny,” She gestures to Ginny, “But right now you’re older than her. 22 to 20. And she shouldn’t be 20, because she’s the youngest Weasley, and that means relative to Ron she should be a year younger, but she’s not! Because of timey wimey stuff.” She shrugs a shoulder, then nods decisively. “Makes sense, right?”

“No,” Hermione says, huffily. “Not at all. Why?”

“Well,” Magic pauses. “Well, because teenagers aren’t the best at talking things out - would you like me to have brought 15 year old Harry into this situation?”

There’s a pause.

“No, not really,” Hermione says, grudgingly. “Not that I know  _ why  _ I wouldn’t…”

“You’ll find that out,” Magic says cheerfully, “In about four books’ time! So you better get cracking,” She adds, gesturing to Harry. “I mean, we can literally be here forever - time bubble, you know - but… I don’t think you exactly  _ want  _ to be here forever, so…”

Harry grimaces, nods, and continues reading.

> _ “At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. _
> 
> Mr. Dursley calls his son a 'little tyke' as he leaves. 

“Oh dear,” Remus says, quietly. Harry snorts. “Yeah,” He says, in response. “Just wait; he gets worse before he gets better.” Harry tilts his head. “ _ Apparently _ he gets better. At least there’s that?”

Little Harry stares at his older self, clearly disbelieving every word coming out of his mouth.  _ ‘Gets better?’  _ he mouths, incredulous. 

Harry shrugs, and carries on. 

> Mr. Dursley notices a cat on the corner of the street. He thinks it is strange, because he thinks it is reading a map. 

“That’s not strange,” Hermione says, scoffing. “Cats look at things. The cat wouldn’t be  _ reading  _ the map, it would simply just be staring at it. Cat’s can’t read  _ maps.” _

Harry shrugs, again, and continues. 

> The cat is still there when Mr. Dursley goes to check what he thought he saw, but the map is not. He assumes it was a trick of the light (for some reason.)

“Dear God,” Hermione mutters. “It  _ knocked it off the wall.  _ Is he really this stupid?” She asks Harry. 

“More than,” Harry says, eyes on the page, lips twitching. 

> _ “Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back.” _

“Cats  _ do that,”  _ Hermione grumbles, quietly. 

> Mr. Dursley continues to be paranoid about the cat.

Hermione rolls her eyes, heavily. Maybe she owns a cat, Dean thinks. Pet owners can get all aggravated about assumptions made regarding the species that their pets are part of. 

> Mr. Dursley forgets about the cat. He goes back to thinking about work, and ergo, thinks only about drills until he arrives there. 

“What  _ are  _ drills?” Percy asks, glancing at the younger wizards. Hermione shrugs. “They make holes in things,” She says. Dean could give a better explanation, but he doesn’t. That one’s sufficient enough, given it’s not like a wizard’s ever going to need to use a drill, if magic is half as useful as Dean assumes it is. 

> Or at least, tries to; at the edge of town, something drives drills out of his mind. 

“Oh, wow,  _ really?  _ But they’re so interesting!” Dean  _ thinks  _ he heard this twin being called Fred, so he’s going to go with it for now. Anyway, the guy’s tone is sarcastic as all hell, and Dean’s lips twist into an amused smile. Vernon Dursley is certainly a very boring man with a lot of very weird hangups, Dean thinks. He’s not as normal as he wants to appear. 

> People in odd clothing! This is very offensive to Mr. Dursley. He doesn't like the things youths these days wear, _grr, get off my lawn._

Quite a few people rolled their eyes, Dean included. He’s one of  _ those. _

> Mr. Dursley is angry that any person, especially an old man, would dare to wear clothing he thinks is weird. Cloaks! People don't wear cloaks! Especially not ones in emerald green! How ridiculous!

Dean grins. Nice one, old guy.

> Mr. Dursley is very annoyed about the old man. But he figures they must be collecting for something - yes, that's it - and convinces himself of this notion enough so that his mind is returned, once more, to drills. 

“And there he goes,” Fred says, “Returning to the only thing in life of any importance: Drills.”

> Owls fly about in broad daylight, but Mr. Dursley doesn't notice because he's too busy being an arsehole boss. 

“Well that’s ridiculous!” Little Hermione pipes up, looking affronted. “The statute of secrecy clearly states-”

Older Hermione places a hand on her younger self’s shoulder. She looks a little embarrassed. “Quite a few things that contradict each other,” She says, and then, “But you’re right, this  _ is  _ ridiculous! What wizard in their right mind-”

“That’s probably it,” Percy says, taking his glasses off to wipe the lenses. “I heard about this - I was very young, but I do vaguely… well, not recall, but I  _ know  _ that - when You-Know-Who was vanquished-”

“ _ Vanquished,”  _ Fred says, scoffing, “More like laid down for a nap-”

“When he was  _ temporarily  _ vanquished,” Percy continues, talking over his brother, “En masse our society went a little mad with partying and messaging each other - it was hell on the Obliviators, as far as I know, and the Aurors, too; lots of people accidentally breaking the statute in the throes of their newfound freedom from war, and all that.”

War?  _ War? _

“War?” Perce says, looking at Percy. 

“Ah, yes,” Percy grimaces. “There was a war.”

A pause. “I assume we are to read about it,” Percy adds, gesturing to the books. “So I need not explain any more, correct?”

“Yep!” Magic nods. “Carry on, Harry,” She smiles at him. 

Harry inclines his head, and does as requested. 

> Mr. Dursley is an arsehole boss. He gets a bit peckish, so he goes to go get a donut across the street. 

“Lovely,” Tonks says, dryly.

“Surprised he didn’t just ask his secretary to go get it for him,” Harry says. “Vernon? Willingly doing exercise? Boggles the mind,” he continues, voice vaguely monotone, expression amused.

“I couldn’t tell,” Tonks grins at him. Harry shakes his head, and continues. 

> Mr Dursley has a short term memory issue. He is reminded of his hatred of people that wear funny clothes by spotting some more, all grouped together, who he glares at angrily. He clutches onto his donut bag.
> 
> _ “"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard--" _
> 
> _ “"-- yes, their son, Harry--" _
> 
> Mr. Dursley wants to know what they're on about, but he's too afraid to go through with asking them.

“Coward,” Ron says, shaking his head. Harry nods. “He wouldn’t be a Gryffindor, that’s for sure,” Harry says, and then the both of them shudder. “Thank God for that,” Ron says, fervently. 

“Bloody hell, Harry, you didn’t need to give us that imagery,” Seamus says, grimacing. 

“And yet,” Thomas shakes his head. 

Harry shrugs, vaguely apologetic, and then continues reading.

> Mr Dursley flees to his office, is an arsehole boss, attempts to dial his wife, and them remembers he's a coward and convinces himself not to do that. He sympathises with his wife's plight of having a sister _like that,_ after convincing himself his nephew's name probably isn't Harry, but probably is something he'd pick, like Harold. Look, his kid is called _Dudley._

“God they’re  _ awful,”  _ Hermione snaps, then sighs. 

“Thought that was obvious,” Harry says, lightly, raising an eyebrow at her. “Well,” She says, “I only ever met them once, I think?”

“You haven’t met them at all,” Magic chimes in, “Just. For the record.”

Hermione sends the woman a scathing look. “I’m aware,” She says, “I mean - I just, obviously I don’t have  _ any  _ reference for them. ‘The Dursleys are not nice people’ may be knowledge in my head, but I didn’t know what that  _ meant  _ because I didn’t have any context for it until now.”

“How much worse does it get?” Hannah pipes up, softly. Her expression is gentle, concern evident in the furrow of her brow. 

“Worse,” Harry says, ominously. He flips the page and reads:

> _ ““He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door." _
> 
> It's an old man, very short, who immediately breaks the statute of secrecy by telling Mr. Dursley about You-Know-Who's demise, and then walks off after hugging him. Mr. Dursley is too shocked to stop him (doing the hugging thing). I mean, to be fair, if a stranger did any of that, you probably would be too. 

“Oh, he definitely got arrested,” Tonks says, decisively. “That’s a  _ deliberate  _ break of the statute, that is.”

“I wouldn’t say deliberate,” Luna says, airily, “He’s simply so happy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone that he feels he must share the news with others.”

“And besides,” Ginny adds, “Most muggles would think him insane, anyway, so it’s not a real break. Gotta do magic in front of a muggle to really break the statute, or bring them somewhere magical, otherwise they’ll just dismiss it because ‘magic isn’t real’ or ‘possible’ or what have you.”

Tonks shrugs. “It’s the law,” She says, “And I’d know it, being an auror.”

“Aurors magic police, then?” Dean says, reassessing her. Damn, and she’d seemed cool.

Tonks nods. Ah well. Nobody’s perfect. A punk policewoman, though, that’s something new. 

> _ “Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.” _

“You weren’t joking,” George says, oddly faintly. “Who doesn’t ‘approve of  _ imagination’?  _ It’s  _ important!” _

Hermione looks surprised. Ginny’s glowering at the book. “No wonder Dudley turns out like that,” She says, sharply. “A lack of imagination is a lack of intelligence,” Cho says, simply. “He doesn’t approve because he has none, and he doesn’t like what he doesn’t know, what he’s not himself capable of.”

Hermione looks offended, for a moment, then extremely disgruntled. “A lack of imagination isn’t a lack of intelligence,” She says, “He’s just judgemental. He’s got no creativity, no understanding of - of - how things actually work, he’s just - an idiot, a complete and total idiot, but people can be very smart and not at all creative, and very creative and not at all smart,” She says. “They’re not intrinsically linked, necessarily.”

“Not necessarily,” Cho allows, “But Ravenclaw - the tower’s riddles are that way for a  _ reason.  _ Creative thinking is what Rowena prised most, which is why if you can reason your answer well enough, even if it’s not the conventionally accepted ‘correct’ one, you can get past the door.” She pauses. “Creativity - imagination - the ability to think outside the box, it’s the - most important tenant of her ideology, I suppose.” She shrugs, lightly. “So we put… a lot of stock into it, is all.” 

Hermione frowns, heavily. “Right,” She says, sharply. “Harry?”

Harry grimaces. He picks up the book again, and carries on reading. 

> When he gets home, Mr. Dursley sees the cat again.
> 
> _ “"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.” _
> 
> The cat does the normal 'cat stare' in response. You're not gonna get a cat that doesn't know you to leave by saying _Shoo,_ you fool. For some reason, Mr. Dursley is suspicious of the cat. Do cats act like this? (Yes, the answer is yes.)

“Yes,” Hermione says, “ _ Merlin,  _ yes, cats are  _ like that.  _ He’s the one interpreting the look as stern, but it could be  _ anything.” _

Harry scratches his chin, and looks at Ron. There appears to be some silent communication, there, before Harry turns back to Hermione.

“Tabby cat,” He says. “Markings around the eyes.”

It takes her a minute, then her eyes widen. “Oh,” She says. “I take back everything I’ve said.”

Ron laughs, and she shakes her head at him, scoffing, but there’s a smile pulling at her mouth, belying her own amusement. 

> _ “Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.” _

Percy shakes his head, looking like a disappointed teacher who knows he should expect to be let down, but reacts the same way each time regardless. Dean would know; he had a lot of those teachers. There wasn’t really any  _ point,  _ though, back then. Dean wasn’t exactly going to get a normal job, and everything felt so beyond useless - he’d rather be learning how to shoot so he doesn’t  _ die  _ than be learning how seismic activity works, because he’s never going to use the latter, but the former is the only reason he’s still  _ here.  _ Getting his GED made sense. It was logical, it was reasonable, and his Dad - well, alright, so John Winchester didn’t think Dean would have finished middle school, let alone high school, and to be fair, he wasn’t wrong in that assessment. So, yeah, he agreed about the GED. Dean’s read his diary enough times to know the man’s reasons for everything; Dean has  _ killer instinct,  _ apparently, has since he was six and his dad first taught him how to shoot. Sammy doesn’t, though how dad could figure that when Sam was four, Dean’s not sure. Still, the point is, getting Sam out of the life was really John’s goal, as much as it didn’t seem to be, and he was very proud of his son. Dean’s proud of his little brother, too, don’t get him wrong; it’s Stanford. Big leagues college shit. If Dad hadn’t disappeared, if Dean wasn’t on his way to convince Sam to help him find him, and if Sam doesn’t say yes to that, then, well, then Sam’s gonna go to law school. He’s four years younger, but he’s done a lot more than Dean ever will, and he’s proud of him. ‘Course he is. Dean practically raised the kid. But. Bringing it back around to the topic at hand - one of the things Sam sometimes lacks, in consideration, is imagination. He doesn’t think outside the box very much, or at least, not as often as he should. Hunting can get you killed if you don’t keep improving, finding new ways to do the same dangerous things. Even just the little stuff, like Dean’s FBI badge forgery skills and walkman EMF, stuff like that, it helps out a lot. Always arrive prepared, but sometimes Sam would forget to bring a weapon. Little stuff. Dean’s more suited than he is to the life, and that much is just true. Doubly so, now, since Sam’s been out of it for four years, thereabouts. 

> _ “Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day... Mr. Dursley tried to act normally (a feat, I'm sure)... When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: _
> 
> The newscaster reports the weird things that have been happening, and allows himself a grin at the absurdity. 
> 
> _ “"Well, Ted," said the weatherman," _

“Oh that’s my Dad!” Tonks grins. “Ted, that is.” 

“He’s a newscaster?” Hermione asks, tilting her head. “Yep,” Tonks nods. “Quite a few muggleborns and other wizards do that sort of thing - get into muggle jobs - so they can help tip off the DMLE about statute breaches. It’s useful.”

Hermione nods, understanding. Great, so there’s snitches, then? Dean’ll have to keep an eye out for that. He doesn’t know what obliviators are, but if they deal with statute breaks, and they’re not wizard police, then - well, then they could be anything, but it’s probably nothing good for Dean.

“"I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."”

“Oh dear,” Remus says. Percy cleans his glasses rather rigorously. “I can’t imagine the workload the Ministry had - especially the muggle relations people - during that time,” He says, agitated. “Everyone flagrantly ignoring the fines and  _ azkaban sentences  _ for breaking the statute en masse - it’s insanity, truly.”

Azkaban? Sentences implies prison, but the expressions on the wizards faces are making Dean think along the lines of  _ Alcatraz,  _ and not just your usual lockup. Seems a bit much for non-violent crime, but Dean doesn’t really know how important the statute is. It’s not like America has one, and they keep their monsters safely hidden away from the average joe just fine. Hell, not even the government knows about them. 

> _ “Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…” _

“Here we go,” Ginny says, with a sigh. 

> Mr. Dursley attempts to get over his cowardice. He does not do a very good job, and asks his wife hesitantly about her sister instead of simply saying what he's seen that day. 
> 
> They usually pretend she doesn't have a sister, so Mrs. Dursley is very angry about him bringing her up, and very shocked, to boot. She expresses this anger. 

“Maybe he has a reason to be cowardly,” Annabeth says, with amusement. 

> Mr. Dursley mumbles the events of the past day, reluctantly. 

“Oh, she’s got him cowed,” Ginny agrees, then purses her lips. “Hmm,” She hums. “Interesting.”

> _ “"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley. _
> 
> _ “"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd." _

Harry shakes his head. “Dick,” Ron mutters.  _ Her crowd.  _ Dick indeed. 

> Mr. Dursley continues to be a coward, as Mrs. Dursley drinks her tea, lips pursed. He asks how old their nephew would be, about now.

Little Harry grimaces. There is clearly no love lost between Uncle and Nephew, that’s for sure. 

> Mrs. Dursley unwillingly goes along with the topic. Mr. Dursley pretends he thinks Harry's name is Howard. Mrs. Dursley insults the name Harry, and confirms that it is indeed what their nephew is called. 

“Oi,” Ron says, “Harry’s a great name.” “And what’s so wrong with a more average sort of one, anyway?” Tonks demands of no-one, glowering at the book. “I’d see if you’d like being called  _ Nymphadora!”  _

Nympha-what-now? Either it’s a Brit thing or a  _ magical  _ Brit thing, but that’s definitely not any name Dean’s heard before. Alright, well, he might have heard something similar - Sam called him a  _ nymphomaniac  _ once, which was just rude. Isn’t slut shaming supposed to be like, a bad thing? And, alright, Dean might have heard something similar in a strip club, once or twice. And in other places. Once met a girl called Nympha, and she wasn't in the industry, just a girl he met on a case. Ghost in her bedroom, you know how it goes. 

> _ “"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree." _
> 
> Mr. Dursley succumbs to his cowardice. He and his wife go to bed. The cat is still outside, waiting for something. 

Hermione sighs. Definitely not a normal cat, then, Dean gathers. 

> Despite not approving of imagination, Mr. Dursley wonders if he has been imagining the events of today. He worries about people finding out he's related to the Potters, again. 
> 
> Mr. Dursley is comforted by the idea that even if he wasn't imagining it all, there would be no reason to involve him and his family. 

“Jinxed,” Little Harry says. 

> _ “How very wrong he was.” _

Little Harry is correct. 

> The cat is still sat on the wall. It is definitely not a normal cat, unavoidable to realise at this point. It's a Tabby, with markings around the eyes. 

“Alright, that’s not a normal cat,” Seamus says. “Who do we know that can turn into a cat, has markings around the eyes, and is a Tabby?”

“Professor McGonagall,” Thomas says, shrugging. “Right?”

“Probably,” Harry says, and carries on:

> _ “A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.” _

“Definitely,” Thomas corrects. 

> A man appears, by the name of Albus Dumbledore. 

“Nice,” Seamus says. “Old Dumbles is here.”

“I wonder why…” Hermione frowns at the book, mind clearly racing behind her dark eyes. 

> The man knows the cat. He seems amused, but not surprised, by it's presence. 
> 
> He uses a lighter to put out the street lamps. 
> 
> _ “"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."” _

“So she’s a shapeshifter?” Dean comments. Could be something else, of course. Shapeshifters usually are only capable of shifting into other people, not entirely different species. But perhaps magic has something to do with it - maybe being a non-demonic-witch has some side effects, like shapeshifters being born with the ability to transform into other creatures entirely. Seems plausible. Magic tends to make literally  _ anything  _ plausible, though, so Dean’s not betting on it. 

“Animagus,” Ron mutters, as Harry reads. “Wizards that can turn into animals - uh, one specific animal per person - there’s a potion and some other stuff involved in becoming one, it’s a long process.”

So. Not natural, then. Dean nods his thanks at the explanation. Magic. Nifty stuff, really, when it isn’t evil. 

> The tabby is replaced by a woman. She looks ruffled. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen Minne look ruffled,” Sirius says, amused. “Wonder what that looks like?”

Harry shrugs, and carries on. 

> _ “"How did you know it was me?" she asked. _
> 
> _ “"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly." _
> 
> _ “"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.” _

A spattering of laughter. Dean grimaces in understanding; he’s had to do that a few times, on watch during cases. It really isn’t fun. 

> Professor McGonagall complains about the revelry. 

Hermione nods, agreeing, expression disapproving of those who were committing the acts of revelry. 

> _ “"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."” _

“Eleven years?” Dean says, as Sam’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “That’s a long war,” Sam says, softly, expression that of his usual concern. Probably pity hiding somewhere in there, Dean thinks. 

“It was a long war,” Percy says, simply. “The third that century. We were involved in the muggle wars, you see, and they were both immediately followed up by the civil war You-Know-Who started. It was a shambles, in all honesty. We weren’t prepared - all the losses we’d suffered thanks to the previous two contributed to how difficult it was to manage the Death Eaters.”

“It was a civil war?” Dean asks. 

“Yes,” Percy nods. “Death Eaters - extremists, really. ‘Blood purity’; nasty business. Piggy-backed off of the anti-muggle sentiment of Grindlewald’s war, and just kept spiralling.”

Sounds complicated. But then, it’s the political situation of a society Dean knows nothing about; of course it’s going to sound complicated. He doesn’t know what a Death Eater is, what Blood purity is, what Grindlewald’s war was about, or any of it. These words mean nothing without the context. He thinks maybe that’s how these amnesiacs are feeling about what’s in their own head, and he sympathises. It’s likely a lot worse for them. 

Harry sighs. He picks up from where he left off. 

> The Professor asks for confirmation about the defeat of You-Know-Who. Dumbledore gives it, and tells her to call him by his name, Voldemort. 

Ron flinches, discretely, next to Dean, and he’s not the only one; Cho shudders, whole-body, and Hannah goes very, very pale. “Must you?” Percy snaps, cleaning his glasses again. 

“It’s what the book says,” Harry says, wryly. 

“Still,” Magic says, “If it’s - when it’s your turn, feel free to replace words you don’t want to say,” She adds. “Not here to trigger trauma for no reason, now. Carry on,” She gestures. Harry shrugs, and does. 

Professor flinches. Dumbledore complains, and forgets he's not scared when others are because he's already defeated a dark lord before, and Voldemort wouldn't dare attack him, because Voldemort is scared of him, the dolt.

“Of course  _ he  _ hasn’t,” Hannah says, faintly. “He’s  _ Dumbledore.” _

The guy must be very important, Dean thinks, to get this kind of reaction. 

> _ “"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."” _

“Great man, Dumbledore,” George says, grinning. “Scaring the pants off Dark Lords since 1926.”

> _ “"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have." _
> 
> _ “"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."” _

Various nods around the room. So. Evil magic is definitely a thing, but not demonicly evil magic. Great. Dean’s going to have to learn more lore, isn’t he? Not that that’s a bad thing. It just takes time he’s not sure he has. 

> Dumbledore says he's blushing, and that he hasn't done so this excessively since his earmuffs were complimented last. 

“Gross,” Little Seamus says. Seamus grins, shrugging. “Old people flirting,” He says, “Ahh, ancient love.”

Thomas snorts. 

> Professor McGonagall starts talking about the rumours that have been spreading about Voldemort's defeat. 

“Here we go,” Harry mutters, takes a breath.

The room was tense; those in the know looked a whole range of negative emotions - uncomfortable, sad, resigned, sympathetic, maybe a little pitying, and Harry looks decidedly disgruntled as he speaks:

> _ “"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead." _
> 
> Dumbledore confirms this. Professor McGonagall gasps, saddened. Dumbledore gives her comfort. 

It’s quiet, for a moment, as Harry takes a pause. So, he’s an orphan, then. God, that sucks. Dean knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have none. Judging by how well Harry knows the Dursleys, it’s likely custody went to them, as the only living relatives, and - that also sucks, because clearly they aren’t great people, and certainly not great people for a young wizard to live with. They don’t like things that are different, and clearly they don’t like the Potters’ kind of difference, and that difference was  _ magic,  _ so - ergo - bad place to put a magical kid. And - look, even if magic makes Dean a bit uncomfortable, no kid is culpable for that shit, if it’s just the way they’re born. They’re  _ kids.  _ Dean’s only ever angry at adults that should know better, and teenagers who need to learn the hard truth that things that are easy aren’t always good, even if they give you the illusion of power, which a lot of the time teenagers feel like they need, especially the ones that turn to witchcraft out of desperation. But  _ kids?  _ God, it sucks when it’s kids. Dad doesn’t wanna treat it any differently, which is why Dean volunteers to do those hunts alone, and obfuscates what  _ actually  _ goes down, because, damn, they’re  _ kids.  _

Kids don’t deserve that shit. Death, pain, any of it. They just don’t, and Dean does, in fact, blame the parents, or the caretakers, or the lack thereof in those situations, when the kid gets a hold of some downright evil shit and uses it. They’re not witches, they’re not psycho murderers - they’re  _ kids.  _

So even if you don’t like magic, which often has fair enough reasons - you  _ can’t  _ hate kids who are born with it, that’s just  _ wrong.  _

> The professor explains that Voldemort couldn't kill Harry, supposedly. Dumbledore confirms this, and that this is how Voldemort was defeated. Professor McGonagall is in disbelief.

Harry grimaces. 

> _ “"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."” _

“Really?” Cho says. “No idea? Not one?” She looks around. “Not even - I mean, there’s a few things Lily Potter or - or James Potter could have done, magically speaking.” She hesitates, as she glances at Harry. “Not… necessarily the lightest of magic, but-”

“My mum wasn’t a  _ dark witch,”  _ Harry says, affronted.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Cho says, simply. “I’m saying that there’s some magic that’s not  _ inherently  _ bad that is illegal, and one of them could have done that. Self-sacrifice is powerful magic, if you do it right. The scar on your forehead,” She says, “It’s a rune. If you combine rune, with your parents' deaths, and your miraculous survival - it’s  _ possible  _ that well, one of them or both of them, traded their lives for yours.”

Harry frowns at her. Cho shrugs, delicately. “It’s… what I always thought,” She admits. “It’s the only thing that makes sense - you  _ can’t  _ survive the killing curse, it’s just - it’s impossible. People have tried, and they’ve failed.” 

Harry’s frown deepens. Likely to avoid continuing the topic, he returns to reading the book. 

> _ ""Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" _
> 
> _ “"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?" _
> 
> Dumbledore says that Harry is to come live with his Aunt and Uncle, and that's why he's here; to deliver the boy to them. 

… Alright, so Dean was kind of right. Just not about  _ how  _ Harry got to the Dursleys. 

> Professor McGonagall is very much against this plan.

Agreeing murmurs across the table. It was wrong, for a variety of reasons, but Dean knows that the system often fails you that way; there was likely no other choice for guardian, and putting Harry into the foster system would have been worse. At least it’s some form of family, even if it’s shitty family. It’s better than nothing. Growing up like Dean did… puts things into perspective. Stil. Better than nothing doesn’t mean  _ good.  _ Just that being alone is the worst option out of those available, and given everything it would have been unfair. Plus, he’s not entirely sure of how bad the child protection systems of 80s and 90s Britain were in comparison to 80s and 90s America, but he’s not going to assume much of a difference in quality. He doesn’t have enough faith in authority for that. 

Harry laughs, sounding semi-mocking, then shakes his head, and reads, with humour;

> _ “"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."” _

“Blimey, is he bonkers?” Ron says, as Ginny draws her shoulders up, her expression turning heated. “A  _ letter?”  _ She says. “A letter!”

Harry echoes her;

> _ “"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly. _
> 
> She expresses severe displeasure with this plan. 

Oh God, fame. Well, Dean did once want to be a rockstar, but other than that - fame is unhelpful, above all else. Having your face plastered everywhere… not good for anonymity, which is one of the things keeping Dean alive. And out of jail. 

> Dumbledore says fame is a bad thing, but does not justify why it had to be the Dursleys, exactly.

“Could have done that with better people,” Ginny says, sharply. “Anyone else would have been better.”

> The professor accepts this. She wonders suspiciously if Dumbledore brought him here under his cloak. 

More laughter. Though, judging by Hermione’s expression, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Dumbledore to have actually done so. 

> Hagrid, whom Dumbledore trusts with his life but Professor McGonagall doesn't exactly think is the best choice, is bringing Harry to the Dursleys. He arrives on motorbike. 

“My bike!” Sirius says, cheerfully. Then frowns. “How did he get my bike?” He blinks. “Why don’t I know that?”

Magic’s expression is shifty. “Spoilers,” She says. “Sorry.”

“And it’s not  _ your  _ bike,” Hermione adds. Magic’s expression grows shiftier, but she doesn’t say anything, allowing Hermione to continue with a potentially incorrect assumption. “It’s their Sirius’ bike,” She gestures to the kids.

“Oh, right, yeah,” Sirius nods. “Forgot.”

Magic laughs, uncomfortably. “Harry?” She requests, under her breath. He sighs, and carries on. 

> Hagrid is a very big man, and he's holding Harry in his arms, which is definitely a safe way to transport a baby across the country. 

“Aww,” Ginny grins, the edge of a tease in her tone. “Baby Harry!” Little Harry looks vaguely embarrassed, while older Harry just sighs, looks at her flatly, then continues. 

> Hagrid confirms there were no problems, that he got the bike from Sirius, and that Harry fell asleep over Bristol.

Dean thinks, quietly, in his head;  _ Aww,  _ then, louder,  _ Why was a baby in mid-air over Bristol? That’s seriously way too dangerous - _

> _ “Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. _
> 
> Dumbledore confirms that is where Harry was hit by the killing curse, and says he wouldn't get rid of the scar if he could, because he has a map of the london underground on his knee and somehow that means all scars are useful. He says they better get dropping Harry off over with. 

“Better get it over with?” George says. Fred shakes his head, and adds, with humour, “Couldn’t wait to get rid of your scrawny self, could he, Harry?”

“Seems like it,” Harry responds, clearly used to these two, and seemingly aligned with their sense of humour, at least in this. 

> _ “"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.” _

“Ew,” Little Harry mutters, but Kid Ron snorts, and he wasn’t quite quiet enough for Dean not to hear him. 

> The Professor shushes Hagrid.

“Ahh, Hagrid,” Fred says, “He’ll never change,” George finishes, the both of them shaking their heads fondly at the man’s actions. 

> Hagrid apologises, Professor McG worries about the statute of secrecy, or just three random adults being caught with a baby in the middle of the street in the middle of the night leaving it on a doorstep.

Seamus snorts. “Nice one, Professor,” He says. “Really hammer that callousness home, would you?” 

> Dumbledore puts harry down on the doorstep, tucks a letter into his blankets, and then re-joins the other two. 

A sad atmosphere takes over the room, before Harry grimaces at the looks he’s getting and quickly continues. 

> _ “"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations." _
> 
> _ “"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir." _
> 
> _ "I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. _
> 
> Professor McGonagall leaves, as Dumbledore puts the lights back on. He looks at baby Harry. 
> 
> _ “"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.”” _

“Wait,” Hannah says, “Wait, they just… left you there?”

There’s a pause. Then a clamour of disbelief. 

“It’s November!” Cho says, looking horrified. “It’s cold - no baby should just be on a  _ doorstep-” _

“What if something came knocking?” Dean demands, because, seriously, this is so  _ irresponsible.  _ “Kids are vulnerable - and they just left you there? Alone? All  _ night?” _

Voices overlap each other. Dean spies that Malfoy kid smirking from his place on the other table, and is very glad he’s out of the way, because nobody should have to see his clear entertainment regarding what could have happened to Harry during the hours of the evening he was just  _ left on a doorstep.  _

> Harry miraculously sleeps through the night until Mrs. Dursleys screams at seeing him on the doorstep, which I'm not sure how she explains to the neighbours. All across the country, during the night, before he's found, toasts are made to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He doesn't know anything about that, of course, because he's a baby. 

“To Harry,” Neville murmurs. “How… how did they even know?” He wonders. Which is a fair point.

“Godric’s Hollow is a magical-muggle town,” Luna says, serenely, “It would have been quite the surprise when one of the houses exploded.”

Yeah, no kidding. 

“So that’s that,” Harry says, tapping the book. “Chapter one, done.”

“Tempus,” Hermione says, and at the end of what is clearly a  _ wand,  _ in this case her wand, appears flickering numbers floating above the tip. “Hmm,” She says, and then dismisses them. “Odd.”

“Time bubble,” Magic says, cheerfully. “It’s technically eight-am, but at the same time, seven-pm, and at the same time, midnight, and at the same time, midday!” She shakes her head. “Time is a relative dimension, but I’m sure the kiddos are getting a little sleepy,” She says, “And we’ll want to pace ourselves, at least, because we don’t want to get burnt out before we’ve even started.” She snaps her fingers and the books all disappear. Harry blinks at his empty hands, which he lowers awkwardly onto the table. 

“Finish up your meals,” Magic instructs, “Divvy up the dorms between yourselves, I’ve made sure everybody can go everywhere… just in case,” Her expression turns shifty again, then she smiles, disarming. “But uh, there shouldn’t be any problems! So, with that all said, we’ll bid you goodnight.” She waves, and then, in the next moment, she is gone. Chronos too, he notes, when Dean finishes processing that she disappeared before he could even blink. 

Grover bleats in surprise. Yeah. Gods, seriously. Dramatic fucks. 

“Alright,” Harry says. “Well, might as well,” And he picks up his knife and fork. Dean remembers the steak on his place, and digs in.

* * *

“Alright, alright,” Ginny says. “So. Kids.” She looks at Hermione and Ginny, “You want to share a room, or you good separate? You want one of us in with you, or you good without?”

“We’re good,” Little Ginny says, brightly. “Right?” 

Hermione hesitates, then nods, decisively. Ginny chuckles and sends them on their way; they abscond up the stairs to the girls’ dorms, and will likely end up kipping in the first year’s room. Simple. 

Ginny bids Hermione goodnight, and leaves the tower. Hannah’s bunking in with Hermione, bless her soul, and Ginny’s going to go hang out with Luna (and Cho, she supposes) in the Ravenclaw Tower. Best to do that; Marietta, Cho’s best friend, was the one who gave Luna the ‘Loony’ moniker, after all. Ginny’s not leaving her alone with someone related to that shit. Someone who would probably make excuses for her friend. It’s not that Ginny  _ doesn’t  _ get it, but when your friend fucks up, they fuck up, and you hold them to it. 

Different kinds of loyalty, Ginny supposes.

Anyway.

Neville and Harry and Ron and Dean and Seamus are doing the usual bunking, since that’s what they’re used to. Sam and Dean are in Gryffindor, too. Annabeth is in Ravenclaw, with Percy and Grover and Nico and the others, which might be part and parcel of why Ginny is going there. She’s hung out a bit with Dean, a bit with Percy and Grover, and out of the two she feels like she’s gotten a better idea of Dean. Plus, he’s a muggle. These guys are more than that, she can  _ feel  _ it, like gooseflesh bumps on her skin. To put it simply, she doesn’t exactly trust any of these strangers, including Dean and his brother, but she’s less worried about putting the Winchesters in her blind spot than the other Americans. 

Just something about them, the other Americans. Like she said. Gooseflesh. Her hair standing on-end. A shiver in her bones. Like emanating power. She’s felt it a few times, mostly from enchanted objects, sometimes from angry wizards, people who are working intense magic. Not just from a bunch of twenty-somethings standing around doing nothing out of the ordinary, though. Calm muggles don’t  _ radiate  _ like that, it’s just not how things work.

So something’s up with them. And Ginny’s going to keep an eye on that.

She arrives at the tower, and bangs the knocker. 

“When is a door not a door?”

“Huh?” Ginny frowns at it. 

“When is a door not a door?” It repeats. The door opens, though, so Ginny doesn’t have to answer.

“When it’s a-jar,” Cho says, ushering her inside. “It’s a play on words, kind of annoying. I don’t like that one. Relies too much on english vocabulary, not enough on deduction.”

“Oh,” Ginny says. Ajar isn’t a very common word, so she doesn’t feel too bad about having missed it. And, well, like Cho said; she’s not a writer. Ginny’s vocabulary is what it needs to be, no more and no less. 

“Hello, Ginny,” Luna smiles. “Hey, Luna,” Ginny greets. Luna’s sat upside-down on the couch. Ginny sits next to her, sideways, back against the armrest. Luna doesn’t mind when Ginny throws her legs over the other woman’s midsection. 

“So,” Annabeth says, pointedly, “Given we’re reading these books for a reason, I think we should take notes.”

Ginny lifts her head and twists her neck, in order to raise an eyebrow at the blonde american. “Why?” She asks. 

“Because,” Annabeth explains, “Magic said that once this is over, the kids will be going back to their timestream. If they want to fix any problems, they’re going to need ideas. Plans. Information. So, we take notes.”

“Reasonable,” Cho says. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great,” Annabeth nods. “Do you have… well, I suppose you won’t have a laptop, but anything to write with?”

“Quill and ink,” Cho says, hopping up. “I’ll be right back,” And she goes upstairs.

“Quill and -” Annabeth pauses, takes a breath, and closes her eyes. “Quill and ink,” She repeats. “ _ Dios Immortales.” _

“1300s,” Perce reminds her. Oh. Ginny forgot to mention; her other three brothers are keeping an eye on Malfoy in the Slytherin Dungeons, in case he tries anything. Percy’s there to make sure nobody tortures anyone, and that no murder is committed. For now, it will have to do. 

“Magic,” Ginny says, “Doesn’t work with muggle tech by default, remember?”

“I do,” Annabeth says. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Ginny shrugs. That’s true. She returns her gaze to tracking patterns on the ceiling. 

“So what are we writing down?” Cho says. She sits, taps the paper with her wand, and instructs the quill to write down what Annabeth says. 

“Helpful,” Perce says. “Can anyone use those?” He asks.

“I think so,” Cho muses, looking at the quill. “It only needs words to activate - I know squibs can use them-”

“What’s a squib?” Annabeth says, and the quill writes it down. Cho cleans the ink off the parchment, and explains; “A squib is a muggle born to magical parents, basically. So, a muggle with magical ancestry.”

Annabeth nods. “First things first,” She says, “A list:”

And then she’s off, bullet-pointing the events of the chapter that seemed the most important. There’s not much, but there’s enough. Cho tells the quill to stop, and it drops on her lap. 

“Okay,” Annabeth says. “Do you mind keeping track of those?”

“Not at all,” Cho agrees to keeping the notes in her trunk, for now. “What next?”

“What Magic told us to do, I guess,” Perce says. “Sleep.”

Ginny does feel tired, she’ll admit; it’s been a long day. She gets up from the couch, helps Luna to standing, and then heads upstairs to the dorms.

She wonders, briefly, what the next day will bring. It’s not long until her head hits the pillow, she curls up under the duvet, and she falls asleep, anticipating tomorrow. 

It should, at least, be interesting.

* * *


	4. Evanescente Speculum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two; a trip to the zoo. Plus some other stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link:
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_AuHYpz3Ux1G--C9LniXAH5CX4y4NPUmRv2er-8164s/edit?usp=sharing

The next morning - or, not really next anything, Annabeth supposes, considering - dawns bright and… dark. Outside the windows of the Ravenclaw dorm room she’s currently residing in, it’s quite hard to tell what is and isn’t going on. There’s a forest, off in the distance, a lake below, stretching grounds of rolling hills, green, maybe, with mountainous terrain off in the distance. Something that looks like a spectator arena for some form of sport stands tall to one side. Annabeth itches to go have a look, but new forms of architecture can wait - there are, admittedly, more important things to pay attention to right now. As much as the castle is beautiful and strange and impossible - though not quite how Annabeth would have designed it - trick steps just seem like a fatal accident waiting to happen, horrendously hostile architecture, Annabeth would like a word with whoever came up with that - but. Well.

Anyway.

It’s quite hard to tell what’s going on, she means, because it looks… like night and day, literally. The sun and the moon flickering about, superimposed on top of each other at different points in the sky. It’s almost giving Annabeth a headache to look at it, the unreality of it all. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Luna says, dreamily. She’s sat in the window alcove, barefoot, in a summery kind of ‘robe’. There are radishes dangling from her ears, and around her neck hangs a cork. Her hair is a dirty blond mess of curls, her eyes a striking grey, but pale. She looks like an odd sort of distant cousin to

Athena’s kids, Annabeth thinks.

A strange girl, for sure. But no stranger than many people Annabeth knows from camp, and from elsewhere, though Annabeth is quite certain she knows nobody quite like Luna Lovegood. 

“Shall we go down?” Luna tilts her head as she squints at the quidditch pitch. Her tone is serene. “I’d rather like to know what happens next.”

Annabeth feels the same. “Yeah,” She says. “Is everyone up?”

“Cho went downstairs early,” Luna says, standing up. “Ginny’s waiting in the common room… brooding over yesterday’s events, I imagine.”

“Brooding?” Annabeth raises an eyebrow. Ginny had not struck her as the sort to brook.

“A close approximation, I suppose,” Luna says, simply. Her eyes are wide, owl-like. If they were from the same universe, Annabeth would at least peg her as a legacy. Some kind of distant niece. “You’re right - she’s not, usually. But Ginny is a very internal person, really. Likes to work things out for herself, doesn’t want to rely on help.” Luna tilts her head. “Ginny’s a wonderful friend - but she doesn’t like vulnerability. Harry and her share the same temperament, really, she’s just more outgoing than he.” She hums, and starts to leave the room. “Their relationship could go two ways - the best of friends that clash on everything, or the most harmonious of lovers. Shall we?” She holds the door. 

“Why tell me that?” Annabeth asks.

“Oh, I thought that’s why you asked,” Luna says. “After all, isn’t it what we’re here for? Why else would we be reading our lives, if not to know ourselves better?”

Huh.

Annabeth, she thinks, feeling vaguely annoyed, had been too focused on the other half of this - the ‘saving their worlds from undue torment’ half. But - they’d only need information for that, wouldn’t they? This whole rigmarole with reading from their own points-of-view… it’s - there’s got to be more to it. But what? Annabeth’s not sure what the telling of her story will entail - is she to be a side character, to Percy’s Point-of-view narrative? She’s not sure how to feel about that. But she’s equally certain she wouldn't want her own thoughts read aloud. 

“It’s a dilemma of principle,” Luna says, still serene. “Are we to bear the burden of suffering alone, or to share it’s weight together?”

“Atlas holding up the sky,” Annabeth mutters, then frowns at the dread that floods her, momentarily. Screw these missing memories right to Tartarus - she hates breaking out into gooseflesh for no reason, especially when she’s sure many of these memories are things she’s over, by this point, when she’s from. 

“There’s a muggle saying,” Luna adds. “‘Misery loves company’. It’s easier to feel negatively, when you know others are feeling the same way, too. No one person can be Atlas. Take too much for too long on your own… it’d kill you.”

Annabeth feels like she knows that better than most. Literally. 

“Thanks for the advice,” Annabeth says. Luna smiles, wide. “Anytime!” She says, brightly, and skips out of the room.

Annabeth shakes her head, and follows.

* * *

Neville and Harry were dormed with Perce and Grover, because the radiating power from the green-eyed American was too dangerous to leave him alone. Ron could tell quite clearly that he knew he was being watched, and that he’d currently resigned himself to it - but there was a certain level of similarity between him and Harry, Ron could see, in the way that Perce clearly didn’t appreciate being crowded in. 

Ron hadn’t been massively happy about Hannah watching the other Greek-Americans alone, but they’d seemed… if not safe then at least friendly. And Hannah was a hufflepuff, plus, just generally a pretty nice, warm kind of girl. People liked Hannah; she was the least likely person to start shit if put with people she didn’t know. Anyway, it had kind of been a last minute decision - pretty late last night someone remembered the extra Americans hadn’t been set somewhere to sleep, and Hannah had volunteered.

Probably because she just wanted to sleep where she was used to sleeping. 

Still, anyway. That had left Ron to dorm with the Winchesters. Bloody brilliant. The thing is - none of them trust each other yet, because, well, what reason would they have to? So keeping everyone nominally separated during the hours they aren’t all in the same place is the safest way to stop plans from being formulated. At least the brothers were pleasant enough company. Ron tried to imagine having to share with that Nico kid, or god forbid, Malfoy, and shuddered mentally. Yeah, he could have done worse. He could have had Junior Death Eater duty, like his brothers, or creepy death-aura kid duty, like Hannah. Or, well, that Hazel girl. She seemed to be the person Nico paid the most mind to, aside from Perce. 

“So what’s on today’s agenda?” Dean asks. Ron was used to waking early thanks to the crow of a rooster at dawn, the Burrow basically being a farm, and all, but Dean gets up early. He’d showered - and seemed extremely pleased about the ‘water pressure’ - and dressed before Ron’s had time to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Dean grabs a t-shirt and throws it on. “You know, with the books, and all,” He grabs a flannel, and puts that on top. “We readin’ straight away or what? Gettin’ food ready first like yesterday?”

Did Ron say dressed? He meant mostly dressed. Ron wasn’t paying attention to the mostly part. Except that he was - it was hard not to; Dean had clearly lived a hard life, old scars littering his skin, some faint, some new. Dean caught him looking, and grinned. “Badass, right?” He’d said. “Chicks dig scars, too, so it helps there,” And he winked, while Sam rolled his eyes, disapprovingly. Dean holds himself proudly, far more comfortable in his marked skin than Remus, who just looks tired and worn down. Well. That’s probably part and parcel of the fact that Remus is tired and worn down, while Dean is a man in his prime, mid twenties and clearly well built. 

Anyway - he’s dressed now, so that’s irrelevant. Ignore it. 

But. He does not, for one second, believe ‘chicks dig scars’. His arm itches, as if in response, and Ron scratches it absently through the cloth of his pyjamas. 

“So wizards wear nightgowns, then?” Sam asks, awkwardly. He’d been pretty awkward about being handed one to wear, since it was all they had in his size - Dean hadn’t put up a fuss, just got on with it, probably due to tiredness. “Most,” Ron shrugs. “We don’t call ‘em that, though. Jus’ night robes. Like day robes, ‘cept you sleep in ‘em.” Ron’s got muggle pyjamas he borrowed from Harry a few years back, after he grew out of his old set. And, really, Dudley’s clothes could fit anyone and still be a bit baggy, so it all worked out; Harry fit Ron’s old set better than Ron did, and that was that. 

Ron swings his legs off the bed, and stands, stretches, then sets about grabbing a new set of robes from his trunk. He’s glad he’s used to changing in the lockers and the dorm and, yeah, the prefect’s bathroom, so there’s not much of an issue with awkwardness - what stops Ron in his tracks isn’t that there are strangers in the room, because for the first few years of hogwarts everyone was a stranger. No, it’s - his arms. 

He must have been extra tired last night, because Ron’s not sure how he could have missed this. Scars like tendrils, wrapping around his arms in swirling patterns, stark against his freckled, tanned skin. They’re pink-tinged and pale, and very strange - there looks to be suction marks, and they’re strangely smooth to the touch. 

“Oh, awesome,” Dean says. “How the fuck did that happen?” He asks, sounding in equal parts genuinely impressed and genuinely curious. 

“I… forgot,” Ron says, lamely. Dean tilts his head and looks closer - Ron holds his arm out for easier inspection. Dean hums. “Looks like tentacles, maybe,” He says. “Can I-?”

“Go ahead,” Ron says, awkwardly, ears burning, but Dean inspects the scars quite professionally. “Might be one of your magical things that made these,” Dean says, thoughtfully. “Don’t recognise the pattern - but it kinda does remind me of an octopus, or something.” He taps a tendril with one finger - Ron realises he can’t feel it, just like he couldn’t feel himself scratching through his sleeve, earlier. “Definitely scar tissue,” Dean says. “Can’t feel that, can you?”

Ron shakes his head. “Gotta be careful about that,” Dean advises. “Anyway - like I said - chicks dig scars, especially cool scars, not ugly ones, and we, man, have badass scars - take my advice; got a girl you like the look of? Be all mysterious with ‘em, but don’t go Joker on her ass - uh, creepy-crazy-mysterious,” Dean clarifies, at Ron’s confusion, “You want ‘air of mystery and the exciting, safe sort of danger’.” 

“Stop giving Ron bad dating advice, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean turns around, affronted. “Bad?” He says,

“Bad? Sammy, who between us has had the most girlfriends?”

“Me,” Sam says, confidently, “Because they’re _actually_ girlfriends, not just ‘ _a bit of fun_ ’. We should go downstairs - everyone’s probably down already.”

Dean looks quite offended. “Shows what you know,” He grumbles, lowly, grabs his jacket and moves to leave the room.

“They won’t be,” Ron interrupts, awkwardly. “I mean - it’s probably about six, or something. I was raised on a farm, I don’t sleep much - you rose earlier’n me, so… most’re probably still asleep.”

Dean sighs, tugs absently on the icon hung on his necklace. “Yeah,” He nods. “But food won’t make itself.”

That much was true. Ron accompanies him out, Sam trailing awkwardly behind on the staircase, it not being suitable for three-astride. Once they’re out of the common room though - totally deserted as it stands - he starts walking on Dean’s other side. Ron leads them through a somewhat complicated maze of shortcuts, and Sam seems fascinated by how they can walk through a door on one floor and end up, unceremoniously, three floors down, even though they only had to drop down a small ledge and walk one foot forwards. 

“How does that work?” He marvels, as they step out from behind a tapestry. 

“I dunno,” Ron says. “Just does, dunnit? I’m no enchanter, and Hogwarts has a mind of its own, I’m telling you. ‘Magine half o’ these just spawned on their own one day, no wizards or witches to credit.”

“Sounds sketchy,” Dean says, looking warily around. He’s like that, about magic, but if he’s only ever encountered Dark Witches, then well, Ron doesn’t entirely blame him for his mistrust. Murdering children doesn’t endear people to a subgroup. Sam has, on the other hand, a very intellectual sort of curiosity - Ron thinks he and Hermione’ll get along pretty well. Probably do decently with Percy, too, come to think of it.

Dean… Ron admits he’s not sure, but Dean’s a decent bloke. Most everyone seems alright with him, so far. Guess time’ll only tell who they all get along best with out of the various Americans, anyway. 

“Dad always said never to trust something that you couldn’t see where it put it’s brain,” Ron allows, “But that’s more for things that seem alive than for buildings. It’s just…. The uh, ‘saturation’, or something. Of magic? It’s everywhere, and it seeps into the stonework, and there’s so much being cast here - it’s always active, it’s a school. So it absorbs that…” Ron shrugs.

“Growth mindset?” Sam offers.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ron says, “Castle’s constantly growing and changing - like the inhabitants. Teenagers.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean grimaces. “Magic… and hormones.”

“It’s not much worse than for muggles,” Ron says, “You’ve just got to watch yourself, or you’ll - make it snow inside, or something.” 

“Huh,” Sam considers. “Seems more trouble than it’s worth,” Dean comments. He recovers quick - maybe he and Sam just have that sort of dynamic, and Dean knows his brother doesn’t mean anything by it, when he says stuff that could be construed as mean. 

“Not really,” Ron says. “Scourgify cleans stuff, tergo gets rid of blood, episkey fixes small breaks in bones and shite like that - stuff that takes muggles hours or weeks or months takes us seconds. Small price to pay to have to keep your head on straight, right?”

Dean shrugs a shoulder, non-committal. There’s more to magic than Dean knows, and Ron’s determined not to get shot in the face - or for anyone else to get shot in the face, for that matter, due to a misconception. Don’t think Ron isn’t constantly aware of the muggle firearm tucked into the back of Dean’s trousers. Sam probably has one, too, come to think of it. Seems like the sort of thing hunters would just generally have on them. Being non-magical and fighting magical threats, and all - got to even the odds somehow. 

“Here we are,” Dean pronounces, and tickles the pear. He’s a quick study, Ron’s already noted. He must have been paying close attention when they were navigating yesterday, because he’d reached for the way to open a few of the passages before Ron had had a chance to, on the way down. Sam had remembered one password, which was pretty well done of him, because it was that one annoying stupid long not-quite-latin (‘pig latin’, apparently, though Ron’s not sure what it has to do with pigs) password. 

They entered the kitchen, and got to work.

* * *

It’s probably around nine when everyone has finally arrived in the great hall. Magic and Chronos are not yet present, but Percy assumes they will be shortly, if Magic wasn’t exaggerating how much reading will have to be done. George and Fred have swapped seats today. Percy’s quietly quite glad of the missing ear - it makes things much simpler on the front of telling his brothers apart. Not that Percy couldn’t, of course - Percy is very good at spotting discrepancies in supposedly identical images or objects, such as a cauldron with a 3 inch thick bottom versus one barely under. They sit slightly differently, at a barely-noticeable height difference. And cauldron thickness is very important, he’ll have you know. Thinner the bottom, the more likely it is to melt through, and a lot of potions are incredibly dangerous and incredibly volatile - exposing them to fire is likely going to get someone, most likely a student, gruesomely killed. 

It may not be the most glamorous of things to fret about, but it’s important. A lot of very important things are often considered dreadfully dull, which suits Percy just fine; it means he’s the only one who has to deal with those things, and he’s got very good judgement when it comes to them. 

Food arrived with Dean, Sam and Ron a short while prior, and now everyone’s at least halfway through eating. Apparently they’ve been in the kitchens since six-or-so. Harry showed up there at eight, and started helping making supper. 

Since there aren’t any house elves, Percy is quite certain they should all learn at least a little bit of cooking. Set up some sort of schedule, perhaps. There should be a few blank timetables around here, somewhere; this is a school, after all. It might help, actually, to give everyone a proper routine to ascribe to. A little bit of normality in this confusing mess of a time-bubble. 

Plus, the children shouldn’t really be left lax. Studies are important, after all, and Magic did say they should pace themselves.

“What’cha thinking about, there, dear brother?” George asks, tilting his head.

“A schedule would be pertinent,” Percy says, simply. “And Magic did tell us to pace ourselves, so I was considering perhaps we alternate days, or have a few days of break, much like you would in any ‘work’ situation - but I was also thinking that it doesn’t really do to let the kids lose track of their studies - they’ve only just started from their perspective, after all, and we don’t really want them losing control if something upsetting happens…”

“You know, Percy, sometimes being a stick in the mud is exactly what you need to be,” George sighs, disgruntled at having to admit Percy’s ideas aren’t entirely without merit. Percy smiles, small. “Sturdy and stable,” Percy agrees, calmly. His family is rather insane - it only makes sense that one of them be reasonable. 

That one of them is Ron, by the way. 

Percy’s obsessive and uptight; Bill is - a man who decided treasure hunting was a good career path; Charlie is - a man who decided getting third degree burns every day was how he wanted to spend the rest of his life; Fred and George need no explanation; Ginny is a vindictive little powerhouse, and then Ron - Ron is just, a good friend, laid back, fairly easy-going for a Weasley - or a Prewett, for that matter. Percy thinks Cedrella’s genes might have skipped a kid, because there’s little evidence of the Black insanity in Ron.   
Well. As far as Percy’s observed, at any rate. 

These books are likely to give him a better assessment of his brother - and, he considers suddenly, possibly even a better assessment of himself, through the eyes of his brother’s best friend.

Hmm. That’s going to be humbling, most likely. Unfortunate. 

“Alright,” Harry says, loudly. “So, we might have some time before they show up.” There’s a pause. “Anyone got any ideas for how we should be going about this?”

“A few,” Percy says, suddenly noticing a spot of dirt on his lenses and removing his glasses to clean it away. Blasted things, he should cast an impervious charm on them every morning. Percy replaces his specs, and continues. “A schedule of some kind would make the most sense. There’s bound to be some blank time tables lying around - we could draw up a plan of alternating days, with, say, three days for reading, a day for discussion, a day for break, a day for study, and then repeat.”

“Study?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow at him. Percy gestures to the children. “They’re missing classes,” He says, simply. “And they’re eleven. Their magic hasn’t quite settled down yet - they need to learn to use their wands to focus it properly, or we might see the windows all explode if something goes wrong in the narrative.”

“Narrative?” Harry says, dryly. “Well, alright, I don’t see why not.”

“You can do defense - the DA certainly seemed to work well enough,” Percy says. “Alongside Remus, of course. I can do History of Magic, since I’m sure we’ll be needing some background information - just general stuff about the wars, since it’s relevant, and we don’t want to have to stop-and-start every few sentences to explain something about that - you can all sit in,” He adds, gesturing to the Americans. Some look a little disgruntled at being lumped in with the ‘children’, but nod regardless.

“Huh,” Harry tilts his head. “Didn’t think of that, yeah. Alright, Percy. Any volunteers for the others?”

“I’ll do charms,” Cho says. “I’m good enough at those.”

Hannah and Neville share a glance. “We can tag-team Herbology,” Hannah offers, “And potions? They’re complementary subjects - really should be studied alongside one another, and it would save us a class slot.”

“I’ll help,” Hermione decides. Neville flushes. 

Ron scratches his chin. “Someone’s got to do transfiguration,” He says. “Hey, Moony,” Sirius grins, “Think a sixteen year old animagus’d make an alright Transfig teacher?”

“Sirius… no,” Remus says. 

“Sirius yes,” Sirius nods. “Tonks, if you would?” 

“My pleasure, cousin,” She grins. “Metamorphmagi end up getting pretty good at some of that stuff - me, I specialise in clothing. Morphing into a different shoe size is a total pain.”

Sirius nods, understandingly, and that’s settled. 

“I’ll do astronomy,” Luna says, dreamily. “And that should be everything, yes?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Great. Remus, Percy - you both have the best chance at coming up with a good schedule,” He says, ignoring Hermione’s vaguely offended expression, “So…”

Percy nods. “Of course,” He says. “Remus?”

“Minerva should have some blank time tables in her office, somewhere,” Remus offers, with a sigh. “I wouldn’t normally say we should simply rummage through someone else’s belongings, but needs must, I suppose.”

“Might as well go now,” Harry adds. “Before those two show up.”

Remus nods, as does Percy, and they leave the Great Hall post-haste.

* * *

It’s another hour until something interesting happens.

“Can’t be here today,” Piper says, “Or, well, not ‘today’, but you know what I mean! Anyway - Chronos and I have some things to do, so we’ll see you at dinner. We’ve sent the book so you can continue on without us - don’t worry, we won’t miss anything! Signed, Magic.” She puts down the note, and holds the book gingerly in her grip.

“Great,” Harry sighs. “Just brilliant.”

Malfoy is left, therefore, to his own devices on the other table. 

“Who’s turn is it to read?” Sam asks. 

“Mine,” Sirius says, with a grin. “Pass it over here, Pipes.” 

Piper wrinkles her nose, but slides the book over the table. “Piper,” She corrects.

“Yep,” Sirius says, and then opens the book. 

“Chapter two,” He says. “The Vanishing Glass.”

Oh. Harry grimaces. Great. 

The zoo incident.

Well, Harry supposes, he’s just going to have to get used to this. Everything being laid pretty fucking bare before everyone. 

> “‘Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all.’” Sirius starts, dramatically. “ - Not that anyone would have expected anything else of these tossers, of course. ‘The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living-room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-coloured bobble hats – but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large, blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a roundabout at the fair, playing a computer game with his father-” Sirius paused. “I thought he didn’t approve of imagination?” He said, then shrugged, and carried on: “along with ‘being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.’”

Sirius sends a glare at the page, as if it had personally just offended him. “That’s a right side unfair,” George says. “No kidding,” Hannah murmurs, and Harry is not a fan of pity, so he nudges Sirius to get him to continue. 

> “‘Yet Harry Potter was still there -’” Sirius says, through grit teeth. Harry is not looking forward to his reaction to the following revelation, because he knows where this is going - he’s not stupid. Most kids don’t sleep in cupboards. And it hadn’t really bothered him - it’s not like Harry minds small spaces any more than the next person, or has a fear of spiders (rather the opposite, really; they were decent company) or anything like that. But it’s just not how kids should be treated by the people who are supposed to care about them, and there’s a lot of people in this room right now who are a) owners of volatile tempers and b) likely to blow a gasket at someone ‘hurting’ Harry in any way, shape, or form. “- ‘asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice which made the first noise of the day.
> 
> “‘Up!’ she screeched.’”

“Petunia definitely grew up just as unpleasant as we’d imagined, then,” Remus mutters, low, but not enough so that Harry doesn’t catch it, which was likely the intention. His lips quirk up; yes, Aunt Petunia was not a very pleasant person to be around, for anyone.

> Harry remembers the dream he'd been having (about a flying motorbike that seemed familiar) as Petunia goes into the kitchen.

“Huh,” Harry says. “Forgot about that.”

“So you remember it?” Hermione says, tilting her head. “No,” Harry says. “Like I said - it was a dream… I guess I did enough flying as a baby that it left an impression, or something.”

Hermione inclines her head. 

“You did,” Sirius confirms. “Lily was not particularly happy,” He shakes his head, with a smile. “It was perfectly safe! You think me or Prongs would have let anything hurt a single messy hair on that head of yours?” He scoffs. “Anyway, you loved the bike. Everyone did, it was a masterpiece. Didn’t even grow a personality and run off into the wilderness!” 

Harry blinks at him.

“That can happen sometimes,” Sirius says, offhand. “When enchanting. Put a bit too much life into something, boom, suddenly it’s got a mind of it’s own and doesn’t quite like being driven around by us bipedal mortals. Anyway…” He turns the page, and continues. 

> "His aunt was back outside the door.”
> 
> “‘Are you up yet?’ she demanded.
> 
> ‘“Nearly,’ said Harry."
> 
> Petunia instructs him to do the bacon, because it's Dudley's birthday, and she wants it done perfectly, so he'd better not mess up. 

“You cooked?” Hannah says, surprised. “But you were eleven!” Hermione nods, but most everyone else looks in some way confused. “Mom would never let me near a hob when I was a kid,” Perce agrees, “Afraid I’d burn myself.”

“Same here,” Tonks adds, “But then, I’m a mite bit clumsy, so I’m not a good gauge for those sorts of things. Could burn water, me.”

“Whoever’s available cooks,” Dean says, simply. “And it’s not that dangerous, if you’re not stupid about it. Just don’t touch anything hot.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s not just that,” She says. “There’s a lot of things that can go wrong. Kids aren’t physically very strong, nor are they mentally fully developed. They don’t understand danger in the same way - and they’re small, they can’t even reach the hob, let alone use it.”

“Depends on the kid,” Dean counters. “I’ve been cooking since I was five. Nothin’ wrong with it.”

“And you?” Hermione turns to Sam. Sam shrugs. “Not until I was thirteen,” He says, simply. “Dad cooked occasionally, but he was always tired after a hunt, and Dean didn’t trust me with the stove, the hypocrite,” He says. Dean looks vaguely disgruntled. “You were easily distracted,” He grumbles. “Think you’ll find that was you,” Sam says, amused. Dean scoffs. 

“She made mistakes when she was stressed, didn’t want to burn herself and the food,” Harry finally pipes up, getting bored of the topic. “Dud’s birthdays were stressful. Look, just, carry on reading.”

Sirius scoffs, but does.

> “Harry groaned.
> 
> “‘What did you say?’ his aunt snapped through the door.
> 
> “‘Nothing, nothing …’”

Ron grins, as Hermione shakes her head, fondly. “Always snarky, eh?” Ginny says, smiling. 

> Harry had forgotten about Dudley's birthday. He finds himself some socks, having to deal with a spider in the process, because spiders like cupboards, and in a cupboard is where he sleeps. 

Ginny’s waning smile drops completely. 

Harry sighs. He forcibly grabs Sirius by the shoulders to keep him in his seat - shouldn’t have bothered, since Remus could do that. Tonks has Hermione, and Ginny has herself, a vice-tight, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table, her face flushed with repressed anger. Ron, Harry quickly checks, looks angry, but resigned. Because, of course, he’d personally seen the bars on the window. As had Fred and George, who are once again looking more serious than they normally ever allow themselves to. 

“They deserve more than a tongue lashing,” Percy says, furiously cleaning his glasses. “Why, I -”

“Planning a visit, there, brother o’mine?” Fred says, dangerously. “Feel like inviting myself along, for a chat, you know. See if they’d like to test out some more products…”

Harry sighs again, feeling the frustration build. It really wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be. “Blimey,

Harry,” Ron says, tired anger clear in his countenance. “I-” Hermione looks white as a sheet. “I- I had no idea-”

“What,” Ron says, annoyed, “You didn’t believe us about the bars on the windows either, Hermione? The locks on the door? The cat flap? Come off it. You’ve met them! They’re awful!” 

Harry really wished this was one thing they actually did take away, but no. Knowledge about the Dursleys was apparently considered vital in Ron’s brain, to Magic’s machinations. He’s just tired of it already - he doesn’t care anymore. This all happened like a decade ago, and besides, it barely feels like it even happened to him. The emotional attachment is just… not really there. 

“Once,” She says, timidly. “I met them once.”

“Someone really should have a word with them - that is no way to treat a child.” Remus says, tightly.

Harry’s fists clench under the table. But being pitied _does_ cause a reaction. He hates it, he really does. 

“I’m going to kill them,” Ginny says, simply, softly. “When we’re out of here? I’m going to kill them.”

Ah. Well.

“There’s no need for that,” Hermione says. “It’s _much_ easier on us to simply get them arrested. Plenty of evidence, I imagine. I do wonder what Azkaban would do to muggles, since Dementors do affect them slightly differently - and with their shorter lifespans, it’s curious if they can hold out as long-”

‘Azkaban?’ Harry sees Sam mouth in confusion. 

‘Hold out as long?’ he sees Dean mouth back, just as confused. 

“SHUT UP!”

Oh.

Right.

Eyes turn to the younger Harry. The kid Harry, who actually has all his memories intact, and will feel like all this literally happened yesterday. That Harry. 

They should probably stop forgetting the kids exist just because they’re keeping quiet in a room full of strangers, yeah, that’d be a good idea. 

“It’s nothing,” Kid Harry says, looking peeved. “It’s not like they beat me with a stick! I cook whenever they don’t think I’ll poison them and frankly, that’s not as often as you seem to think, I sleep on the ground floor, which, frankly, makes it easier to sneak food at night, and I do the gardening, which, frankly, just gives me time away from them, so why would anybody be complaining about that? It’s more of a punishment to be stranded in Mrs. Figg’s house - which smells like badly cleaned litter boxes and stale cabbages - when they go out then to stay at Number 4 when they’re all present, so I don’t see what the problem is! Plus I spend most of my time at the park, anyway.” He adds, disgruntled. “So who cares?”

“We do,” Ginny says, simply. She gestures to kid Ron. “Your friends do. Because they’re your friends, and friends care, even when they don’t have to, even when it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, because that’s the job friends do. They help you look after yourself when you need it, just like you help them.”

“You sneak food at night, Harry?” Hermione asks, gently. Kid Harry scowls at her. “That’s none of your business,” He snipes. Hermione blinks. 

“We aren’t friends yet,” Harry reminds her, under his breath. “And you know I never liked that tone.”

Hermione shakes her head. “Oh, Harry.” 

“Look, mate,” Ron says. Kid Harry looks a little bewildered whenever he spots ‘Older Ron’, because - well, Kid Ron is sat right next to him, and though they don’t look much different, there are some pretty obvious changes. It must be strange, to see someone you know as they are, and as what they might become. Probably stranger to see the same for yourself, and thus Harry finds the reason Kid Harry has been avoiding him. Honestly, that makes sense. In his place, Harry would do the same, and - well, there you go. It is Harry, in his place. Because Kid Harry is just that - Kid Harry. Harry knows himself, at least enough to know how he’d handle this sort of thing. Harry feels kind of dense for not going down that train of thought, yet. It’s kind of important. The information in these books is supposed to help the kids change things, after all, not them, not the adults. It’s never the adults. That much both Harry and his younger self can agree on without even having to communicate at all. 

“There’s a lot of ways family behaves,” Ron says, Kid Harry narrows his eyes at him, but listens. “Some are right, some are wrong. And you know the Dursleys are wrong, no two ways about it.”

Kid Harry glares, but nods, begrudgingly. 

“So,” Ron says, “We’re angry at them. Because good people get angry when people do bad things.”  
“Like kill people,” Kid Harry says, flatly, eyes on Ginny. She suddenly looks vaguely sheepish. Being judged by an 11 year old tends to feel a bit awkward. 

Ron's lips twitch. “Yeah,” He says. “Like kill people. Or lock up best mates in cupboards, or insult people’s families in train compartments.”

Kid Harry cracks a smile at that one. “That was pretty dumb,” He says, eyes flicking over to the grown ferret. “Really stupid.”

He shares a glance with Kid Ron, and they laugh, the memory of Malfoy’s humiliation fresher in their minds. Or, at all existent before this very second as more than vague knowledge. Ugh. Memory loss. It’s less amnesia and more… some kind of blockage, maybe? Harry considers a few possibilities, but settles on this one being the most likely. 

It’s sort of weird seeing his kid self laugh with a Kid Ron. Blimey, they were scrawny back then, weren’t they? Harry moreso. By the end of his school years he’d hit a growth spurt, could now be described comfortably as ‘tall’, but it had taken a while to get there. 

“Well,” Sirius says, sighing. “With that sorted…” He clears his throat, dramatically, and continues:

> Dudley gets a lot of presents, including a racing bike. This is strange because he hates exercise, unless, of course, said exercise involves punching someone in the face. Preferably Harry, but Dudley doesn't often catch Harry in order to do so, because he may not look it, but the boy go _vroom._

“You didn’t look it?” Fred grins, clearly ignoring the rest of the paragraph; Harry is very grateful for that.

“You were a scrawny little guy, all elbows and knees, but that sort of thing definitely makes a person look fast. You’ve got the build of a seeker, Harrykins, and those are fast people.” George clarifies. 

Sirius continues:

> Harry describes himself, and states that he's always liked his scar. 

“Scars are a good thing,” Dean says, “Shows character.” He grins and winks. “Plus, I’ve found women tend to like ‘em.” Hermione rolls her eyes with a huff. Ginny smirks. 

(Harry, looking in that direction anyway since Dean piped up, spies, just under the edges of his hair, that Ron’s ears go slightly red.)

> Harry asks how he got his scar; Petunia replies in a car crash; tells him not to ask questions. 

“Well that explains a lot!” Hermione says, hotly.

“Hermione, have you met Harry?” Ron says. “He asks questions all the bloody time!”

“Uh - well -” She considers. “Well -”

“Just because it’s not academically inclined,” Luna says, serenely, “Does not mean it is not worth knowing.”

Hermione flushes, and presses her lips together very thinly. 

“Nosy little bugger,” Fred grins, and gets scolded by Hermione for his language around kids, despite the fact that both Kid Ron and Kid Seamus and Kid Harry use more ‘bad words’ than she does, even now. 

> Vernon joins the scene. 
> 
> "‘Comb your hair!’ he barked, by way of a morning greeting."

“Lovely man,” Tonks says, wryly. “Nice to see he doesn’t change much.”

“He refuses to change completely, “ Harry agrees. 

> Vernon and Petunia make it so Harry has a lot of haircuts; it makes no difference. 

Sirius grins affectionately. “So did James’,” He says, “And you should’ve seen Lily’s bed hair - looked like a right doxy nest!” He laughs, and then continues:

> Dudley is described. Harry specifically often refers to him as 'a pig in a wig'. 

Fred and George laugh, and Sirius grins wider, delighted. 

“Out loud?” Ron asks.

“Sometimes,” Harry grins, “Dudders never could figure out what I meant before I’d run off.”

“Sirius chuckles, then composes himself and continues:

> Dudley counts his presents, is disappointed. Harry foresees a huge tantrum, and begins wolfing down his food. 

“What an unpleasant child,” Percy sighs.

“He gets better, I think,” Harry says. “By what measure I dunno, but…”

Harry shrugs, ignoring his younger counterpart’s incredulous stare, as Sirius carries on:

> Petunia has Dudley-Danger-Radar too, and tries to mollify him. He can't count, so she helps him understand two more presents makes him have more than he got last year. 

“They regretted me doing his maths homework,” Harry says, “When they found out about that. ‘You’re a smart, talented, brilliant boy, son, you don’t need the freak’s help,’ I think that was what Uncle Vernon said.” Harry shakes his head. “Had me stay with Mrs. Figg after school for a whole week, right through dinner - that wasn’t fun.”

Young Harry made a very disgusted face, as if to emphasise how not-fun Mrs. Figg’s house was to stay in for any extended period of time. 

“What happened after that?” Neville asks.

“Well, his grades dropped for a bit,” Harry says. “Think he was a bit embarrassed, actually, ‘cause they picked back up pretty quick like. Smeltings was a public school, but you’ve still got to pass an exam to get into one of those, I think. Can’t have done too poorly, or he’d have had to go somewhere else.”

“Huh,” Hermione considers this. “Yes, I think you might be right. I know grammar schools require entrance exams - I likely would have gone to one, had I stayed in the muggle world,” She racks her brain for long-useless information. “I’m not sure,” She admits. “Private schools have exams and a fee, but I don’t know if Public schools let you pay your way inside,” She considers this.

“Does it matter?” Sirius says, bored sounding, before he carries on. 

> “‘Oh.’ Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. ‘All right then.’ Uncle Vernon chuckled.
> 
> ‘Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley!’ He ruffled Dudley’s hair.”

“They do love each other, don’t they?” Luna says, serenely. “There is real care between your relatives.” 

“I suppose,” Harry says. “Doesn’t mean it was the most… functional.”

“I never said that,” She says, her head tilting. “But It’s interesting. How horrible people can still feel love, the same way others do, for the same things. Family, parents, children, spouses. If you don’t feel at all - if love isn’t a part of your life - you must be very far gone indeed, mustn’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah,” He says. “Seems so.”

Sirius continues. 

Dudley opens his presents, including a gold wristwatch - 

“What does a kid need with a gold wristwatch?”

“Thinking about it,” Harry says, dryly, “I think it was gold plated. The Dursleys are well off, but they’re not that rich.”

“Depends on if they get a stipend or not,” Hermione says. “For looking after you. That happens, sometimes.”

“Try and tell that to the goblins,” Ron says. “Only person who can part with the money is the owner. Anyone else gets skewered. 'Less you've got permission, o'course, and Harry hasn't given them any.”

> Mrs. Figg's broken her leg; Harry's ecstatic about this, because he hates going to her house. Dudley is very, very upset. 

“You make it sound like torture,” Ron says, amused.

“It was,” Harry says, darkly. “The same pictures. Every time. From the top. Tabby and Tuffy and Snowy and Tibbles , Mr Paws and Mrs. Waffles and Tufty and Lord Tubbington the Third and -”

“You remember them all?” Ginny asks, grinning. Harry scowls into midair. “It won’t go away,” He complains.

“It’s like the alphabet. Enough times repeated, it gets stuck. I could use that space for other stuff, but - no.”

“Aww, poor Harry,” Tonks grins. “Subjected to cute fluffy animals too many times to forget their names.”

“Professor Kittywinkles,” Harry says, deadpan. “He had a pink bow on his head. I hope he finally escaped - I helped him once or twice, but she always found him. And put the bow right back on again… I think she had an endless supply of those… and out of date chocolate cake, which I might remind you is poisonous to cats, but that didn’t stop her feeding it to them.”

“Lucky they were Kneasles, then,” Ron says. “Not quite cats. Can eat chocolate.”

“Lucky,” Harry says, “‘cept half of ‘em were cats. And they’d suspiciously change entirely from one month to the next, that was weird.”

There’s a pause. 

“She couldn’t cook,” Harry adds. “Hence the stale cake. Honestly, I wish she’d just let me, ‘cause that cake was worse off than anything i’d have done.”

“Crazy old lady,” Sirius shakes his head. “Well, there’s at least one on every street.” He clears his throat dramatically, again, and continues. 

> Harry feels like he should feel bad about the broken leg thing, but he doesn't. It means he won't have to see the cats again for a while, after all. 

Harry shudders mentally. The younger him expresses it physically, much to Kid Ron’s amusement. 

> The Dursleys brainstorm options of where to stick Harry for the day. 
> 
> “‘You could just leave me here,’ Harry put in hopefully (he’d be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley’s computer).”

“Ha,” Sirius grins. “Nice one, shame it didn’t work,” he sighs, shaking his head mournfully, then continues:

> “Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a lemon.”

“Isn’t that how she normally looks?” Fred says, smirking. “Why, brother o’mine, I think it might just be,” George faux-considers, also smirking. 

> Harry is denied staying at the house because he might blow it up. They can't leave him in the car, because it's new. 

“Plus,” Hermione says, annoyed, “He could die if left in it all alone for too long - but no, it’s new, that’s the issue, here…” She trails off, grumbling angrily to herself.

> “Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying, it had been years since he’d really cried, but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted."

“‘Dinky-” Sirius bursts into laughter. “Hold on,” He manges, “Just, Just - Dink- Dinky-Duddydums-”  
The twins start cackling.

> “-don’t - don’t cry,” Sirius reads, dramatically pretending to wail, “Mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!’”

He laughs again, shoulders shaking as he passses the book over to Remus, too amused to continue himself. Remus shakes his head, but takes over all the same, voice much calmer. 

> Petunia flings her arms around Dudders; he sends a nasty grin Harry's way, as he pretends to cry to try and stop Harry tagging along. 

“Obnoxious,” Remus mutters, with a sigh. “Truly, poor manners. His parents should have known better - there is such a thing as too much support,” He grimaces. “Though, it’s really more enabling bad behaviour at that point.”

Remus shakes his head, in a very disapproving teacher sort of way (Harry would know what that looks like, for certain) as he continues:

> “Piers arrives. He's got rat-like features, and aids Dudley in his bullying. 

“Huh,” Harry mutters. Piers Polkiss, Peter Pettigrew. Interesting. 

> Harry gets to go to the Zoo after all, because the Dursleys can't think of anything else. Vernon gets right up in Harry's face as he warns him-

“Oh, unpleasant,” George says, “Indeed, quite unseemly,” Fred agrees, “Quite unsanitary,” George adds, “All that spittle! And I doubt his breath smells like peppermint…”

Harry laughs, quietly. It actually did - Vernon liked to keep up appearances. 

> not to do anything 'funny business' related, or he'll be in the cupboard until Christmas. It's July. 

“What?” Sirius says, dangerously.

Harry sighs.

“They couldn’t actually do that,” He says. “Empty threats, honestly… anyway, Aunt Petunia’d need me to do the gardening, she’s horrible at it. Ironic, really....”

Ron grimaces. “They did lock you up, though,” He says, quietly.

“Well, end of their rope sort of thing,” Harry shrugs. “I think.”

The lack of memories really was annoying, in moments like these. 

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Ginny says, firmly.

“Well, obviously not,” Harry says, looking at her strangely. “When did I say it did?”

“So you know it was bad,” Hermione says, hesitantly. Harry scowls darkly at her. “I’m not stupid, Hermione,” He says, and she flinches at his tone. “I know,” She says, hurriedly, “I mean - So you know know it was bad, but it doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” Harry nods. “Doesn’t bother me.”

There’s a pause.

“How doesn’t it bother you?” Neville demands. Harry blinks at him, rapidly, because that’s rather out of character. 

“You were dropped out a building and bounced,” Harry deadpans, “That doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me greatly!” Neville says, cheeks going very pink. “I could have died! I still - I still have nightmares about it!” He quietens. “They were so desperate to not have a squib - Great Uncle Algie was, that he’d rather I’d _died_ than been one! He _frightens_ _me_ ,” Neville admits, bravely. “Heights frighten me - I don’t like the beach.” Neville pauses. “But you - you really don’t care, do you?” 

Harry pauses, considers. Shrugs. “Nope,” He agrees. “More annoying than anything else, really.” Well, actually, he was completely ambivalent about it, but that’d probably get reactions that actually would be annoying, and then he’d get angry, and there was no point in that. 

“Different things affect people differently,” Luna says, serenely, but her eyes turn piercing. “And, yet, being locked in a cupboard for weeks on end tends to achieve the same result. How do you deal in small spaces, Harry Potter?”

“Just fine?” Harry blinks at her. “Why?”

Luna hums. “Strange,” She says. “But then, what about us isn’t?”

There’s a pause. Quite long, and after someone coughs - naturally, but awkwardly - Remus clears his throat, and continues. 

> “‘I’m not going to do anything,’ said Harry, ‘honestly …’”

Ron snorts, and Harry laughs, quietly. Nobody believing that was honestly sort of reasonable, these days. 

> “But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did.”

“That sounds really sad,” Hannah says, quietly. Harry grits his teeth, mentally, at the pity in her tone. “It’s not,” Harry says. “When have I ever kept my nose out of trouble?”

Sirius laughs. 

“At least he’s self aware,” George says, solemnly. 

Hermione smiles, secretively, and Ron scoffs. “I don’t go looking for trouble,” He says, a pitch-perfect impression. “Self aware, my arse.”

Laughter across the hall clears the mood.

Remus, in greater spirits, continues to read.

> “The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen."
> 
> Harry details a strange event where his hair grew back overnight. 

“Nice,” Tonks says, approvingly. “Never let someone else control your style.”

“I mean,” Harry says, “Thanks, but, even I can’t control this,” He gestures up. “It just. Is.”

More laughter. 

“I mean you could control it,” Hermione says, “There are a lot of potions for that sort of thing,” She continues. 

“Are you daft?” Seamus says, “Oi,” Ron says, indignant, but Seamus ignores him, tilting his head past the bodies in the way to look at Hermione properly, in order to get across the full effect of his disbelieving expression. “You even know why sleakeazy’s was invented? Who made it?”

Hermione pauses. “No?” She says. “You do?”

“Can’t stop me mam yammering on about it if I tried,” Seamus groans, rolling his eyes. “Like Harry said; hear something enough times, it sticks. Fleamont Potter, Harry’s f- fecking grandad, he wanted a way to control his unruly mop or what have ye,” Seamus shrugs. “Didn’t work.”

Harry smirks, smugly, at Hermione, who sighs despondently. “Oh,” She says. “Why would she?” Ron says,

“She’s a muggleborn, you twat, and who cares about bloody hair products, anyway?”

“Me mam, apparently,” Seamus says. 

Remus smiles, quietly, then continues:

> Another event, where a jumper shrinks. He doesn't get punished for this one. Petunia pretends to think it shrank in the wash. 

“Oh, she’s not that stupid,” Sirius says. “Is she?”

“No,” Harry says, thoughtfully. “She probably just didn’t even want to acknowledge that it happened.” He paused. “Maybe _she_ hated that jumper…”

Remus shakes his head, carrying on.

> Another event, wherein he, from one blink to the next, while running away from Dudley during Harry Hunting, appeared on the roof of the school kitchens. 

“Apparition!” Hermione says, brightly. Ron shakes his head and claps him on the shoulder, grinning. 

“I don’t think so,” Harry says. “Go on - it should say what it felt like, maybe.” Remus, as instructed, goes on:

> "Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.”

There sits, for a moment, a pause.

“Alright,” Annabeth says, “Don’t tell me you’re really that stupid?”

“Wise Girl,” Perce says, “Come on, he was a kid. How old were you?” He asks.

“Uh, probably ‘bout seven,” Harry says, shrugging. “Anyway, I didn’t know magic existed, what was I supposed to think?”

“That maybe magic exists?” Hermione says, innocently, smiling. Harry narrows his eyes at her. “You don’t even read fiction,” He accuses. “What did you think?”

Hermione flushes. “Uh, well, I did think something strange was going on,” She says. “I suppose I have my mother’s habit of reading Matilda to me as a kid to thank for me not coming up with something more… outlandish.” She looked vaguely embarrassed. “I thought it was a true story, for a while after the first incident happened…”

“Dahl, right?” Cho says, considering. Hermione nods, slowly. “Probably was, then,” She says, cheerfully.

“Squib, you see, or basically one - but a seer. Good at scrying in his sleep, mostly.”

Hermione scowls. 

Harry sits back, satisfied. 

> Harry jinxes the day, and continues to complain about Mrs. Figg.

Remus shakes his head. “You really hate her house, don’t you?” He says. 

“It’s awful,” Harry affirms. It really is awful - cat hair everywhere, smells like old lady perfume, about twenty litter boxes all over the show, an old stain of cat vomit on the floor, and the Merlin damned cabbage smell, which Harry just couldn’t figure out where it came from. Drove him up the bloody wall. 

> “While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank and Harry were just a few of his favourite subjects. This morning, it was motorbikes.”

“I wonder what his favourite topic is,” Sirius jokes.

“Could be Harry,” Fred says, consideringly, “Or Harry, maybe?” George offers. “Might I offer,” Percy says, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. Harry had never quite realised how much of a fidget Percy was, until now. “That it could, perchance, be Harry?”

There’s a significant pause, as George blinks rapidly, and Fred openly gapes at him. “You told a joke!” He says, loudly, then falls off the bench. 

Sirius starts laughing like some sort of lunatic, and for a good few minutes there stands untold chaos, set off seemingly out of nowhere, or perhaps just by the severely low likelihood of Percy ever lightening up enough to tell a joke. Or join in with one, at least. 

It calms down, though, as these things always do. Once everyone’s quiet again, Remus continues.

> Harry says he had a dream about a flying motorbike. Vernon nearly crashes the car. 

“Well, that’s just unsafe,” Hermione says. 

> Vernon is very angry about a very normal dream, which is honestly much stranger than magic actually existing. Harry wishes he hadn't said anything, because, one, it was kind of a dumb thing to say given he knows Vernon's temperament, and two, the Dursleys don't want Harry getting any 'dangerous ideas', which is also why he's not allowed to watch cartoons and the like. 

“That’s sort of a dead give away,” Dean muses - oh, right, Thomas. Because there’s two of ‘em now, and two too many Winchesters to use the last name for the new one. Harry has to remember that. “Isn’t it? They don’t care if Dudley does, do they?”

“Well, I don’t think _Diddy-kins_ has got the brains for ‘dangerous ideas’, so…” Harry shrugs.

“Or the faculties to say them,” Fred tacks on, smirking. Harry shrugs. 

“Didn’t you say he had to do alright on his exams, earlier?” Annabeth says, disgruntled by the poor continuity. “Yeah,” Harry says. “Doesn’t mean he’s creative, though.”

> Harry has a pretty good time. Nothing at all could go wrong on this splendid day, because Harry Potter clearly has a lot of very good luck. Clearly. It's a perfect day. A good day. _Nothing bad is going to happen on this very good day._

“That’s not too bad,” Hermione says, tentatively. Harry gestures, and Remus says the next line:

> “Harry felt, afterwards, that he should have known it was all too good to last.”

“Oh.” Hermione sighs. “Right, of course. Foreshadowing.”

> They go to the reptile house. There's a boa constrictor there, asleep. 

“Oh - this is when-?” Ron looks at Harry.

Harry shrugs, his head tilting ever so slightly into a nod. 

> Dudley bosses his dad around, then gets bored. 

“Yeah, they really do just let him get away with everything, don’t they?” Ginny says, consideringly. “Can’t be healthy, that, can it?”

“No, I assure you it isn’t,” Remus confirms. “A child needs structure - guidance, really. Many children have inherent ideas of right and wrong, they just don’t know how to apply them. And then there are the ones that don’t, who need more help than the others. But in the end they all need the same thing - a healthy balance. Scolding when they do bad things, praise when they do good ones.” Ginny nods, slowly; Remus takes this as a cue to continue. 

> Harry compares being a snake in a zoo to living in a cupboard; finds the cupboard preferable. 

“Merlin, seriously?” Ginny demands. “You’re comparing yourself to a snake at a zoo, and you say you ‘aren’t bothered’? Clearly you are!”

“I said it was favourable,” Harry says. “That doesn’t help!” Ginny exclaims. “Look,” Harry says, starting to feel impatient, “It doesn’t matter to me. It really doesn’t. I moved out of there years ago, the Dursleys don’t never have and never will scare me, and you’ll only see more proof of that as we go along. I’m at Hogwarts far more often than Privet Drive, and I spend most of the summer at the Burrow, anyway! I’m barely there two weeks a year! And, given the fact I’m twenty-two, I imagine I’ve not been there for years at this point, anyway. So why does it matter, anymore? It’s over, I’m never seeing them again, they don’t care about me, and I don’t care about them.” He pauses. “Well, Dudley sends me christmas cards, I think. Like I said, he got better.” 

Ginny frowns, then smooths out her expression alongside a deep sigh. “Alright, Harry,” She allows. One thing he has always appreciated about the youngest Weasley is her intuition about when not to push. Something some people don’t have, he thinks, sending a glance in Hermione’s direction, who’s expression is pinched and directed at him. “Harry,” She says, softly, the gentle, pitying tone he really doesn’t get along with well at all. There really isn’t anything to pity. He had a shit childhood - so what? Loads of people do. He’s not about to pull a Tom Riddle, so why does it matter? He’s done, frankly, rather the opposite. Harry watches Kid Harry settle in his seat, now everyone’s stopped talking about him again. 

> The snake looks at Harry. 

Remus pauses, then, with a hand pressed to his head, continues:

“It winked,” He said, flatly. “Even though, of course,” He continues, “Snakes cannot wink.”

“It’s a parseltongue thing, I think,” Ron says. Hermione blinks at him. He shrugs, awkwardly. “Well, it translates, right? Harry doesn’t know he’s speaking it. So… maybe body language works the same?”

“Harry’s human, and doesn’t necessarily get the nuances of a snake’s body language,” Hermione says, thoughtfully, “So it translates the meaning by using equivalent motions? I suppose that makes some sort of sense,” She says, and Ron smiles awkwardly. 

“That makes perfect sense,” Harry says. Ron’s smile softens out the awkwardness. 

> “Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.”

Spatterings of small, short laughs can be heard, and Harry shrugs awkwardly. Winking back had seemed the right thing to do. 

> “The snake jerked its head towards Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly: ‘I get that all the time.’
> 
> “‘I know,’ Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn’t sure the snake could hear him. ‘It must be really annoying.’”

“So… this is what parseltongue is like?” Ginny says, expression hard to read. “Just… chit chat.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Basically.”

She presses her lips together, just slightly. “I remember it differently,” She says, very softly, almost more to herself than anything else. Harry frowns, trying to rack his brain, but the memories he’s looking for - it’s like grasping at straws. Harry really hates this amnesia thing. 

> Harry has small talk with the snake about where it's from. 

“Wow,” Seamus says. “Parseltounge has suddenly lost all it’s scary charm.”

“It’s just a language,” Hermione says, reasonably. 

> Piers yells deafeningly. 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Tonks mutters.

> Dudley punches Harry in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. Harry's magic acts out, and vanishes the glass pane keeping the snake hostage. Dudley and Piers freak out about that. As do the other people at the Zoo. Obviously. Because the glass disappeared and there's a Boa Constrictor on the loose in the Zoo.
> 
> “As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, ‘Brazil, here I come … Thanksss, amigo.’”

“So….” Hermione tilts her head. “You vanished the glass, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Obviously.”

Ron scratches his chin. “Shock,” He says, wisely. “Got punched, magic acted out. Happens.” 

The reaction, Harry feels, is quite minimal. He supposes, though, the people present are unlikely to react very loudly - the Greek-Americans practically stink of power, so this is - most likely - absolutely nothing to them. They’d made more of a fuss about Harry’s room being the cupboard than about anything else, so far. And, not to forget, about Harry’s childhood self being stupid and-or dense. Perce, it seems, cares very greatly about family, and seems also to have something quite personal against Uncle Vernon - perhaps he reminds the other young man of someone, Harry thinks. As for Annabeth, well, she just appears to disapprove of a variety of senseless things, and abuse is one of them. The others are quiet, in general, but maybe they’re just following some unspoken rules about interacting with people outside of their sphere - Harry doesn’t know. Can’t know, in fact, and probably won’t until after all these books are done with. He’s itching to ask, but he doesn’t know how well they’ll take it, and while he’s curious, reckless, and arguably denser than a stack of bricks, on occasion, Harry is also not completely braindead, and pissing off the group of people that make his hair stand on end - not a good idea. Generally speaking. 

> Dudley and Piers greatly exaggerate what the snake did. Piers tells them Harry was talking to it. 

“Oh no,” Hermione sighs, sadly. “Oh, you idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Harry says, “Knows exactly what to say to get me in trouble.”

Ron scowls at the book.

> Vernon confines Harry to the cupboard, 'no meals'. Petunia gives him a very strong brandy. 

Perce’s expression turns dark, cloudy, like a storm over the ocean. “He an alcoholic?” He asks, genially, but there’s an edge to it. “No,” Harry says, truthfully. “Not that I’m sympathising,” Remus says, wryly, “But when you’re a muggle, and glass vanishes, and a boa constrictor, according to your son, nearly kills him, you might want a brandy to calm your nerves.”

“Hunter’s helper,” Dean says. “A stiff drink and you’re good. That ‘no meals’ thing, though, that sucks ass,” He says. “Serious ass. Tell me you snuck out, right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Harry says. “Hell, in the confusion, they forgot to even try and lock it, this time.” 

Dean nods, relaxing. “Kids shouldn’t go without meals,” He says, firmly. As if, Harry considers, speaking from experience. “Speakin’ o-which,” He gestures to toe food on the other table. “Lunch soon.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “If you’re hungry, Dean, just grab a sandwich,” He says. “Sam, if I was hungry, I would,”

Dean says. “Trust me, I’m not, yet. But the kids are.” The kids in question look at each other, shiftily.

Hermione’s younger self flushes, guiltily, unnecessarily so. “Well, I am hungry. How long’s this taken, by estimate, eh?” Ron asks. “A few hours, Ronald,” Luna says, breezily. “It would be about three-quarters-past-eleven, by now, in the normal flow of time for our perceived aspects of it.” 

“Quarter to twelve,” Hermione mutters, pedantic. 

“Great,” Ron says, “Thanks, Luna.” Luna smiles happily in response. 

> Harry waits to get food. He thinks about how long he's been with the Dursleys, about the car crash that killed his parents, and the actual thing that killed his parents. He's forbidden to ask about them, and there are no pictures. Harry. likely, doesn't even know their names. 

“Okay, seriously, and you say you aren’t affected?” Ginny says, but she just sounds tired. “I said the cupboard doesn’t bother me,” Harry says, “And it doesn’t. Other stuff did, I suppose. Would’ve liked to have some friends.”

Remus continues, sadly.

> Strangers in the street keep coming up to Harry, and this is, apparently, perfectly acceptable behaviour, because they're wizards that know him (they do not know him, and they are creepy.)

“Well, that’s dangerous,” Ron says, lightly. “Thought being with the Dursleys was s’posed to keep that sort’ve stuff away?”

Harry considers this. “Guess it didn’t work as well as Dumbledore hoped,” He says, shrugging. “But it did alright. Only happened occasionally - repeat visitations of the same shops would result in one, and it never happened in range of Number 4, just when we went to the big stores and the like, a bit further out.”

> Harry's friendless, because Dudley's a dick. 

“Ouch,” Thomas says, grimacing. “Well, that sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Didn’t it,” Harry says, absently. “Over now, remember? Long over. Merlin, right now, I don’t even remember it.”

“Yeah, suppose you don’t at that, do ya?” Thomas nods. “Kind of a blessing, in a way.”

“Rather have my head on straight,” Harry says. “Having my own past right in my head is the bare minimum.” 

Thomas inclines his head. 

“So that’s the chapter, then?” Sirius says. Remus nods, and closes the book. “Food, then,” Dean says, and stands to go start moving the plates. “Magic, Dean,” Sam reminds him, and he sits down again as the people with wands levitate it all over. “Right, yeah,” Dean says. He’s got some weird aversion to magic, and it’s frustrating. Harry doesn’t get it at all - magic is great. Convenient, above all else, and he seems like a guy that likes convenience. Maybe. Sort of guy that carries a gun in his trousers and makes food for kids probably likes convenient things, right? Right.

* * *

This is all quite ridiculous, in Draco’s humble opinion.

The war was done with, wasn’t it? From what he can recall - which is, frustratingly, admittedly, not much at all - it was done. They won, and of course ‘they’ can refer to anyone, as is the point. They as in his side, or They as in the opposition, does it matter? The Dark Lord’s gone, regardless, and frankly, good riddance. He was mad - didn’t even hold their beliefs, the man was a half-blood. Outrageous. He killed more purebloods than he’d helped. 

So… what’s the point? Why on earth are they here, sat listening to Potter whining on and on ins own head about useless nonsense? Draco doesn’t give a singe fuck about Potter’s home life. He could be chained the wall and whipped every week, it wouldn’t change a thing. Potter’s still Potter, at the end of the day, and he still rightly pisses Draco off. Showing him up at every turn - it's embarrassing. 

And yet, he owed the prat for saving his life. Funny how these things work out. 

Draco, of course, is not going to acknowledge that little fact. The debt was paid. His mother saved Harry’s life - they’re even. That’s not true, of course - standard rules state now Harry owes Narcissa a save, and Draco’s still got to wait on Harry to collect, but standard rules can fuck off. Draco Malfoy is not indebted to Harry Bloody Potter. 

No thank you.

So. They’re here, doing nothing, wasting time, to, apparently, save a bunch of people that won’t be saved when they are, unceremoniously, shoved right back where they started. Draco was, in fact, paying attention. Draco is, apparently, not the Draco from these books - just some cloned or copied version with the right knowledge and some of the memories shoved inside and locked behind a password door, and to get each letter to open it he has to listen to some stupid book about a person he hates and the friends of said person that he also hates, being narrated by the people he hates, in a room full of strangers with way too much power, and all the people he hates. Draco is not having anywhere close to a standable time, let alone an acceptable one, or, Merlin forbid, a good one. Draco has not been having any ‘good times’ for a few years, now, he thinks. 

Potter’s fault, that. Much like everything else that’s gone wrong in Draco’s life. And to think, if the idiot had just offed it earlier, they’d all probably have had one less insane megalomaniac to deal with. Draco should have just gone with killing him in his sleep. 

From a distance.

Via someone else.

And probably poison.

Romilda Vane seemed like a good scapegoat, back then. Morgana, he really should have used that plan…  
Look, it’s just that - that Avada Kedavra is so - unseemly. No respectable pureblood would be caught dead murdering someone first-hand. Nonsense. His mother was right. Do everything from the sidelines, and you’re fine. You skate on by. No-one looks at you twice. Just look at his father - Azkaban, life sentence. Useless, unpleasant. Narcissa? ‘Socialite saved the Hero’, doing pretty well on her husband’s (blood) money, and pretty well with her husband’s (blood) money, since she’s doing more than lining politician’s pockets with it. Though she’s doing that too, of course. Family tradition. Got to keep that sort of thing going - corruption is quite useful, really, mother says. Gets you places you can’t otherwise go. Things you can’t otherwise have. 

Draco is, admittedly, not very good at it. 

So. Look.

The war’s over? What’s the bloody point of bringing it all back around again? There is none. This is some sort of sick trick - anyone who thinks Magic is benevolent is a fool. No. Draco is finding a way out of here, soon, and then he is - lying low, like his mother says. Marrying a decent, moderate pureblood, raising an heir, keeping quiet. Lobbying occasionally, as is expected, but staying under the wards. Easy enough.

Draco’s found the front page to be a bit too notable, in his experience, much as he does like attention - he likes the right kind. It’s far, far too easy for public opinion to switch to the wrong one. 

He’s learnt his lesson. A bit late, perhaps, but he has. He’s not sure how Professor Snape would feel about it. One the one hand, Draco is finally learning guile. On the other - well. Professor Snape was a traitor in the end, wasn’t he? Spy the whole time. Tragic, really. Draco’s father had ranted for days about it until he passed out - that was a spectacle to behold. 

But yes. 

Draco will find a way out of this mess.

He sort of has no choice, unless he wants to get murdered by the entire population of this room. He supposes the Gryffindors are too bull-headed to actually kill him, but the Americans? Muggles, the lot of them, and as barbaric as they come. They have scabbards on their hips! And that funny-looking engraved contraption the one who shares a name with one of the Gryffs has is clearly dangerous. 

Draco’s keeping an eye on that one.

* * *

They decide to take a break, after they eat. People start moving around, clumping up, mingling in smaller groups. The kids are still all huddled together, as expected. 

Hannah decides to sit with the Americans. That’s what they’re calling them - there’s themselves, the Kids, the Winchesters, and the Americans. She wonders what they’re calling them - what grouping term they’ve used for the various witches and wizards present. 

Hannah slides onto the bench, on Racha’s free side. George and Fred have gone to talk with Hermione and Neville about the whole potions thing - Hannah should really join them, partially because the twins can be very overwhelming and partly because Hermione can also be very overpowering, and she doesn’t want to leave Neville on the defensive, but…

They need to know these people better, she thinks. The Winchesters are hunters; don’t seem to have had a decent time of it; Sam goes to Law School; they haven’t talked in a while; there’s some level of conflict, but not enough right now to worry about getting out of hand; Dean’s good with the Kids, which is useful; and Dean’s the oldest stranger here, Remus and Sirius being the actual oldest people here. They own guns - pistols tucked into the backs of their jeans - and Sam’s a vegetarian. Dean, apparently, picks up a lot of women - he’s pretty enough, Hannah considers. Sam disapproves. Easy enough stuff to understand - they’re just people. Complicated people, probably, under the surface, but people. 

These other Americans? They radiate power. Well, except for Rachel, which is why Hannah doesn’t feel so uncomfortable sitting next to her. But the others are just… there’s something dangerous about them. Hannah thinks she could sense them coming from a mile off, they just seem to have - no control over how their presence affects the magic around them. 

“Hello,” Hannah greets. Rachel smiles. She’s alright, is Rachel. Some kind of artist, judging by the paint stains on her clothing, and some kind of activist, judging by the slogan on her t-shirt. Bright red curly hair and green eyes, a freckled face. Could be a Weasley, if you tilted your head and her hair was more ginger - could be Lily Evans’ little sister, if you tilted your head the other way and her eyes were emerald instead of jade. Plus, her jaw’s too wide - Lily had very narrow features; Rachel’s are wider, but softer. 

“Hey there,” Rachel says. “Thanks for showing us to the dorms, yesterday.”

“No problem,” Hannah says. “I wanted to sleep in my old bed, anyway - some familiarity in this mess, you know?”

“What about her then,” Rachel asks, pointing at Hermione. “She bunked alone in the end?”

“Yeah,” Hannah says. “But she’s an only child anyway, so she’s used to it. Probably more comfortable, actually. Hermione’s - Hermione. I… don’t actually know her very well. But she’s nice, I guess. Helped Neville in potions. I think maybe she just wanted to see what it might’ve been like, if she’d gone into Ravenclaw. She was a Gryffindor, you see, and most of us never see the other houses’ common rooms, and we definitely never see the other houses’ dorms.”

“How come?” Rachel asks. “You saying you can’t just invite your friends over for some kind of sleepover?”

“No,” Hannah nods. “You’re not supposed to. I guess people do it anyway? But only if everyone in that dorm is cool with it, and you have some way to sneak your other-house friend through the common room without suspicion. If your friend is a guy and you’re all girls, though, forget it. Guys can’t go in the girls’ dorms. Other way round, though, that’s fine.” Hannah says, disparaging, with a roll of her eyes. Completely unfair. Either be sexist both ways, or, preferably, don’t be sexist at all - but at least don’t be a hypocrite about it. Trust guys in the girls dorms, or don’t trust girls in the guy’s dorms. Hannah’s heard enough complaints from Seamus a few tables over in class to know Hermione barges in unannounced in the mornings, and she won’t be the only one. And that won’t be the only reason girls go into the guys’ dorms… Romilda and her love potions come to mind. What a horrible girl. 

“Some kind of antiquated virtue-protecting rules?” Rachel says. “Awesome,” She adds, sarcastically.

“Hannah,” Annabeth says, “You’re doing - herbology and potions, right?” She tilts her head. “What are those, exactly? I mean, I can tell what potions is, and herbology is obviously some form of plant-based subject, but-”

“Herbology is the care of and knowledge about magical plants, I suppose,” Hannah says, “And Potions is - potions. How to make them, basically.” Hannah pauses. “How to make already existing ones, really. It’s more like a cooking class, but you don’t learn how the ingredients work. Just make the meals by recipe and hope by osmosis you start figuring out how to invent stuff on your own, I guess.” 

Hannah doesn’t like how Potions is taught, but then, that’s a whole other thing. The curriculum being, well, sub-par at best. She’s got a second-cousin who went to beauxbatons, and they learnt about reactions and interactions before they started making any potions, so explosions weren’t happening every three seconds, and what happened to poor Su Li in their first lesson - boils everywhere - were mistakes only people who hadn’t actually paid any attention to the theory would make, and since if you didn’t pass the theory you were physically not allowed to do the practical and you had to take a different subject - well, it just happened a lot less. Potions is a dangerous subject; having no backing information for it can be fatal. Plus, the equivalent to newt students learn how to make potions in their final two years, and for their ‘exam’ it’s making, demonstrating, and using an antidote for a potion of their own invention they’ve been working on during the last year. Hogwarts doesn’t even teach you never to mix murtlap essence with pixie dust, unless you do that yourself by accident and figure out that that was the problem with the massive explosion that results in, usually about a minute or so after they’ve been put together. It’s something to do with the heat and the stirring, but Hannah, as expectable of a Hogwarts student, doesn’t actually know. 

It’s like whoever threw together the syllabus just didn’t care. No effort was put in at all, it’s shoddy work. Hannah’s a hufflepuff - fairness, loyalty, hard work; effort. These things matter to her. Loyalty’s not really applicable, except in house-related ways, but fairness and effort? Hogwarts’ fairness is minimal and the effort applied varies wildly, and it aggravates her greatly. What Hannah knows well are skills she’s taught herself, and that’s poor, for a school. She could go on - about History of Magic, about Divination, about Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, about there being Muggle Studdies (heavily outdated) but no Magical Studies (fuck you, muggle-raised, I guess), and a whole myriad other things, but. No. Hannah needs to pay attention to this conversation. 

“You mean you don’t do any theory?” Annabeth says. 

“In your own time, mostly,” Hannah says. “Sort of, for homework. Essays on individual potions or what can be used for antidotes to poisons and the like. But it’s not… varied.” Hannah grimaces. “We got so many essays…”

Annabeth wrinkles her nose. Perce looks vaguely horrified. 

“Ugh, school,” Rachel says, smirking, her eyes directed at Perce. “Makes you wanna blow up the gym, sometimes, isn’t that right, Percy?”

“That was once,” Perce says, smiling amusedly. “And I didn’t even do it! There were giants!”

“Laistrygonians, Percy, ” Annabeth corrects, absently. And then smirks. “Your nephews, actually…”

Perce makes a face of vague disgust. “Can you stop reminding me when that happens, please, Annabethl?”

“Never, Seaweed Brain,” She says, affectionately, squeezing his hand. 

His nephews? Liastry-what-now? 

Hannah’s confusion must appear on her face, because Rachel shrugs. “Demigods, am I right?” She commiserates, which just makes things worse. Demigods? 

“I guess we’re going to have to explain it eventually,” Annabeth sighs, stormy grey eyes piercing, assessing every inch of Hannah’s person, as if Annabeth can know her entirety just from one intense look. Maybe she can. Demigods. 

“We know about the gods - We could tell who Chronos was - because our parents are gods,” Annabeth explains. “Specifically, the Greek Gods - Athena, Demeter, Aphrodite - all of them. Percy, here…” She hesitates. “Uh, I suppose is a ‘spoiler’, since I don’t know.” She looks frustrated. “I know the Laistrygonians are his nephews, but how that works out….” Her frustration mounts, her eyes darkening as she retreats inside her own mind to try and reach for a memory or piece of knowledge that’s been ripped from her.   
“It’s alright, Wise Girl,” Perce says. “We’ll find out, right? When we - read whatever’s about us.”  
Annabeth sighs, then nods, reluctantly. “Yeah,” She says. “It’s just… I don’t like not knowing.” Perce smiles teasingly. “The daughter of Athena doesn’t know something? Call 911, it’s an emergency.” Annabeth shakes her head and shoves him in the shoulder. “You’re such a Seaweed Brain,” She says, eyes warm.

“Come on, lovebirds,” Leo says, “I wanna ask some questions, lean back a bit, would ya?”

They do.

Leo looks at her expectantly. “Why is this not working?” He puts down - some kind of contraption on the table.

“Muggle technology doesn’t work in magical areas,” Hannah says. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why. I know with certain magic you can make muggle tech work here, but it’s finicky, and also illegal. So…”

“Why is it illegal?” Leo looks affronted. “Invention is illegal?”

“... I guess,” Hannah says. She’d never thought about it that way. “It’s to try and stop Muggle Baiting.”

“That sounds capitalised,” Leo says, “Some kind of crime?”

“Yes,” Hannah nods. “Using magic to mess with muggles. It’s illegal. And a lot of people did that with muggle tech, so the whole thing was put under restriction. It’s… I suppose it’s kind of lucky we’ve already got so many radios…”

“Ah, but there’s the genius, young Hufflepuff,” George says, sidling back into his seat. “You see,” Fred says, conspiratorial, “There’s this little loophole in the law…”

“If you make something enchanted - say, for instance, a flying car - but you never use the flying car - or, at least, the flying part of the car - you’ve not broken the law,” George smirks. “Clever, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Annabeth says. “In testing you have to use your inventions, or else how do you know they work?”

“Someone else can use it,” Fred shrugs. “Just have a tester on hand - someone you trust - and proof you’ve never used it. Then you can register it, get some production put in place, and then everyone can use it - well, when the business is small the worker can’t use it, but once it gets big enough, as in, above two people, everyone can use it.”

Annabeth hums, disagreeing. “It sounds convoluted,” She says.

“But that’s precisely the point, my dear American muggle!” Fred says, grinning ear to ear. “It wouldn’t be a magical law if it wasn’t convoluted!”

“You should see the rules on interacting with muggles,” George agrees. “They’re a right lark, let me tell you. What we’re doing right now is breaking the law more than someone making their toaster work at home.”

Annabeth blinks. “It is?” She says. 

“Well, we’re not about to marry, are we?” He grins. “Special compensation for family - but random strangers on the street breaks the statute. Only reason we can talk about magic with you lot and not get arrested is because you already, technically, knew about it, and with the power you all radiate, why, there’s no reason for us to have thought you wouldn’t know about us wizarding folk.”

“We radiate power?” Hazel asks, leaning forward, golden eyes intently focused on George, all of a sudden.

“Uh, yeah?” George shares a glance with Fred. “You didn’t know?” The other twin adds. 

“... I suppose we might,” Annabeth muses. “If you’re blind to the mist,” Hazel considers, “And you can - sense power? I think it does make sense.”

“No way for us to sneak around, then,” Nico says, a dry tone, eyes dark and unreadable. Hazel’s the youngest - Nico second. He doesn’t really look it though, or - rather - seem it. Nico, Hannah can tell, has led a hard, daunting life, and it’s the sort of life that ages you prematurely. 

“Yep,” George nods, shortly. “Straight through the hoop.”

“Alright then, our work here is done, Forge?” Fred says, standing. “Yes, Gred?” “Let’s go mess with our dear brothers.”

They leave in the direction of where Ron is standing, grouped with Harry and Percy and Hermione, likely talking about the schedule, if it hasn’t already been done. 

“They seem fun,” Leo muses, “Always like that?”

“Long as I can remember,” Hannah confirms. “Pranksters.”

“Oh, we’ll get along just fine,” Leo grins, impish, then stands. He wanders off, fiddling with some tools and metal scraps. Piper and Jason glance at each other, shrug, stand, and then follow.

That just leaves Hazel, Frank, Nico, Perce, Rachel and Annabeth with Hannah. Still a lot of people, she thinks. But not an overabundance. 

“So Magic will be coming back at dinner,” Annabeth says. “We should probably note down the things from what we just read that are important, or could be. I need to go see Cho; she’s got the ‘parchment’ - come on, Percy,” She stands and Perce follows. So, Hannah’s left with Hazel, Frank, Nico, and Rachel. 

“And then there were five,” Rachel says. “What about you, then, hey?” She says, looking at Hannah. “You can sense Demigods?”

“Witches have a sort of…. Innate sense, I guess,” Hannah says. “And - ah, I’m using Witches to mean ‘magical people,’ by the way - so, we have this sort of… ability to sense magic around us. It’s not generally very sensitive, and it’s more likely to occur the more powerful something is.” Hannah pauses. “I guess being the kids of actual gods might be pretty notable on the map…”

“On the map?” Frank looks vaguely confused. “And...there goes my muggle studies NEWT, completely useless, as expected,” Hannah sighs. “We’d say pretty notable in the fog... I think it’s to do with crystal balls - you know, Divination. Important stuff appears in the fog, but you aren’t likely to notice it unless it’s big, you know?”

“Radar,” Rachel nods. “Equivalent would be - radar. It’s a kind of… searching technology.”

“Like scrying?” Hannah asks. 

“No, not like scrying,” Rachel says. “It looks in a certain area around the radar dish, I think. It can be a pretty big area, depending on the… size, I think, of the dish. I don’t know, I didn’t study radar technology,” She laughs. “I’m more of a humanities student.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Hannah admits.

“Damn,” Rachel says, “You really are from a different world, aren’t you?”

“Completely,” Hannah agrees. “Well. Technically. I’m a halfblood, but that doesn’t mean anything. I only know as much as I do ‘cause my gran is a muggleborn.”

“Your… grandmother?” Rachel hesitates. “That’s a long time ago.”

“Very, she’s a hundred-and-eight,” Hannah agrees. Rachel blinks. “Witches live long lives,” Hannah clarifies.

“Yeah, women tend to live longer,” Rachel nods. “No, I mean - I mean, witches is - it’s a coverall term,” Hannah says. “Don’t think I’m just talking about women. You know, a third of all witches burnt at the stake were men? So, don’t. But, uh, what I mean is, the average age of death is somewhere in the late 180s. Now, anyway. People born in the 1800s lived to about 120, maybe. My gran has a couple decades left in her, I think.”

“Oh.” Rachel pauses. “Damn, okay.”

“Yeah,” Hannah nods. “We live long lives. My parents are about sixty - young, really.”

“Damn, okay,” Rachel repeats. “So - other than that, what I mean is - how long has it been, since your gran was in our world?”

“About a hundred years,” Hannah says, wryly. “Muggleborns tend to stay in the wizarding world when they get their letter for the rest of their lives, and Hogwarts is 11-17, so… yeah.”

“You called yourself a halfblood - and, by the way, do not say that around Piper,” Rachel warns, “It’s a slur - and you just said ‘Muggleborns’, which I can gather means… there’s some kind of importance based on that?”

“Well, not really,” Hannah says, “Not unless you’re bigoted, and most people these days aren’t so bad. It’s - well it’s that lot,” She gestures at Draco Malfoy, sitting alone, looking disgruntled. “Purists. Old sect of purebloods - usually the rich ones, but you’ve got the crazies with no money who think that way, too, but that’s inbreeding’s fault, really and they’re literally dying out - who think they’re better than everyone else ‘cause they can trace their magical ancestry back to, say, Merlin’s days, without a single drop of muggle blood ‘dirtying’ their lineage.”

“Ah, bigotry, you’ll find it everywhere,” Rachel says, disparaging, eyes narrowed and focused on Malfoy.

“How bad is it?” She asks.

Hannah hesitates. “I suppose you’ll find out,” She says. “It’s… sort of what the books are about, really. Tangentially.”

“Tangentially? Seems like the sort of thing that’d be front and centre,” Rachel says. “Well, I suppose it will be,” Hannah says. “Hermione’s a muggleborn, Harry’s a halfblood, and Ron’s a ‘blood traitor’, so they won’t be finding much peace on that front.”

“How’s… other forms of bigotry?” Hazel asks, carefully. “Mostly?” Hannah hesitates. “Little bits of sexism, the occasional racist, but… it’s minimal. I think I only really know one racist - Pansy Parkinson, and nobody likes her, not even him,” She gestures to Malfoy. “But he does tolerate her, so I’m not saying he’s suddenly a saint, or anything. No, it’s just, the main issue in Wizarding society is blood purity. It’s more… cultural bigotry. You could call it nationalism, really. Muggleborns are immigrants, after all.”

Hazel nods. Hannah didn’t want to sugarcoat it - the books are going to cover it, most likely, and Pansy Parkinson antagonises everyone. Hannah’s not sure when she picked up the racism; it really isn’t common in the Wizarding world at all. Stuff that happened in the muggle world just didn’t, in the Wizarding one. Hannah’s heard of ‘slavery’, but - they just never bothered with it. Magic can do so many things, and you have house elves begging to clean your house and do the cooking, so why bother forcing some other human to do the task, when that’s only going to make them hate you and probably try and poison your lunch or something? Manual labour just isn’t a thing for Wizards - its part and parcel of why they have a mild problem with obesity, actually - so… for whatever reason muggles justified having slavery, Witches couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t work. There were, possibly, a few extremist muggle-hating purists that enslaved random muggles with imperios and the like for entertainment purposes, the freaks, but they’d be one in a million, Hannah’s pretty sure, and they’d likely have been from the local population of muggles, anyway, because exerting any effort when it came to muggles would have been unseemly, which includes travelling cross-continent to go grab some for a spot of muggle baiting. It just wouldn’t happen. Wizards like to stick to the lands they hail from, and that’s always been the case - it’s only recently, since the 1600s or so, that that’s been changing. The statute changed a lot of things, really. Smaller wizarding populations boosted the need for intermingling between each other, and there’s now quite a few British purebloods who, a few centuries ago, would have sneered at the idea of leaving their homeland, living in places like China and India and Africa and the Americas. And the other way, too; lots of Indian witches came over to Great Britain (and Ireland) in the past few hundred years, along with quite a few African and other Asian ones. 

So - there’s been a long process of immigration and emigration that’s caused, over the years, combined with the lack of things like slavery and ‘segregation’ that’s just meant there’s little to no racial tensions among Wizards. It’s… actually more of a muggle influence, where it can be found. You’ll find more racist muggle-raised than racist wizard-raised, that’s just a fact. Same for other forms of bigotry - sexuality, gender. It’s part and parcel of the purist ideology, actually; muggles are barbaric, they believe in barbaric things, like enslavement and killing people based on whether they like the opposite gender or not. A lot of purebloods still think muggles are the exact same as they were when the statue was put into place, which isn’t as weird as it would seem, because a lot of wizards are the exact same as when the statute was put into place. There have been cultural changes, as Hannah said, but - a lot of the things that changed in the muggle world over the past centuries never needed to change in the wizarding world, because they were never present. It’s a complicated topic and Hannah knows she’s going to get slapped at some point for saying the wrong thing about it, but there’s really only one form of bigotry that matters in the Wizarding World, because it’s the only one that holds any weight, the only one that’s actually ingrained in the culture and systematically implemented in their laws - and it’s blood. To Witches, it’s always come down to blood.

Pansy Parkinson would have had to have picked her racist tendencies up from the muggle world somehow, because it just doesn’t exist in the wizarding world otherwise. 

“What about - gay people?” Nico asks, tone a careful kind of cool. 

“It’s the same thing, really.” Hannah says. “You’ll find the occasional arsehole who’ll use anything to attack someone, and they have to have picked it up from muggles somehow, but the vast majority of a time it’s not a problem, because we just don’t think about that sort of thing outside of actual dating contexts. We don’t even have words for it all,” She shrugs. “You say ‘straight’ in that context or ‘gay’ in that context and they’ll just get all confused. People like whatever people like, no need to categorise. I like women, I like men, I like neither, I like both - there you go.”

“That’s not bad,” Rachel says. “Not having to worry about that sort of thing so much.”

“How long has it been that way?” Hazel asks, eyes still intently focused. 

“Well,” Hannah says, “I don’t know. We don’t cover these sorts of things in History of Magic - there’s no point, because it’s never been an issue, so it’s not a topic that ever comes up. Muggle relations come up a lot, because they’ve always been an issue. Goblins, too.” Hannah pauses. “I guess I forgot - yeah, no, that was poor of me. There’s… speciesism, I guess? Non-human bigotry. There’s a major problem with non-human bigotry - hatred of werewolves, mistreatment of house elves, and the variety of wars with the Goblins because of - a mixture of things, but mostly because Witches suck at diplomacy. We’re… sort of alright, now. The Goblins run our bank. But other than that? The centaurs hate us, for good reason, the giants - well, it’s…complicated - the main issue is being a half-breed. If you’ve got creature blood, there’s a lot of discrimination against that. Um,” Hannah pauses, “There’s classification levels - magical people, magical beings, magical creatures… there’s too many sapient sentients in creatures instead of beings. And a lot of half-breeds, like say, half-giants and half-goblins, are considered results of bestiality, even though that’s just not even close to being the case, because it’s cross-species. So there’s a… level of disgust, when it comes to non-humans and half-breeds.” 

“That’s unpleasant,” Rachel says.

“It was a misstep on my part for not mentioning it,” Hannah admits. “It doesn’t come up a lot mostly only because they don’t bother interacting with us a lot. There’s a herd in the forest, our Divination professor was part of it - a centaur herd - but he got kicked out for lowering himself to fraternizing with humans.” Hannah pauses. “The bigotry is sometimes mutual, but they only hate us because we’ve treated them like shit for generations, at this point, it’s - retaliatory. Used to be an honour to study with them, I think - centaurs have always been masters of Astronomy and Divination, but… overtime Wizards began to see them as ‘lesser’. Got classified as creatures - uh, ‘Beast’ level, I think? - sometime in the last couple centuries, I’m pretty sure. Muggleborn discrimination is getting better - we’re recovering from that - but species discrimination’s only gotten worse.”

“They’re classified as beasts?” Hazel says, affronted.

“Well…” Hannah hesitates, “Don’t - quote me on this, I got EE in COMC but an A in HOM - I think they asked for that. Didn’t want to be lumped in with Hags and Vampires, ‘cause those are Dark, and Centaurs are pretty Grey, and pretty prideful. Rather be Beasts than lumped in with - a bunch of Beings considered evil by most.”

“How deep does the classification go?” Rachel asks, curiously. 

“I’m not sure,” Hannah says, “I didn’t - I mean, I’d have to work in the… well, in ‘The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ for a while to figure that out, but - I mean, you can… probably tell by the name of the Department how Witches see non-humans.”

There’s a clatter of plates in front of them, suddenly, by which the conversation is interrupted. “We’re breaking to eat,” Dean says, “So… eat.”

“Hello,” Hannah greets, vaguely amused. “How was your conversation?” She asks, gesturing to where he’d been, with his brother and Percy and Annabeth. “Boring,” Dean announces. “Nerds, the lot of ‘em. What’s yours been about?”

“Politics,” Rachel says, brightly. “Oh, boy,” Dean says. He sits down, grabs one of the plates he’d dropped in front of them; this prompts Hannah to do the same, and besides, she’s hungry. 

“Don’t like Politics, Dean?” Rachel says, leaning forward.

“I was never on the debate team,” Dean quips, plating himself some pie. “Look, if I meet a dick I punch a dick, and I vote sensibly, if I’m able,” Dean shrugs a shoulder. “Far as it goes for me.”

“We should probably watch the swearing, in front of the kids,” Hazel says, glancing over at the 11 year olds.

Yes, they probably should.

“You kidding?” Dean tilts his head. “They’re british kids. Probably know more swear words than we all do combined. And say ‘em more often, too. Hells, I learnt most of mine off of british kids.”

.... That was also true. 

“You did?” Hazel looks at him, considering. “When?”

Something in his expression closes off. It’s subtle, and he looks just as friendly and open as before, but there’s a sort of… tenseness, Hannah thinks. It’s very subtle, though - and Hannah probably only notices because Hufflepuff’s full of the sort of people who do this; close up when something difficult comes up, because they don’t want to burden other people with their problems. Hufflepuffs tend to prefer being the shoulder to cry on, not the one crying. It’s a loyalty thing; being the dependable one. 

“Went to a few - i guess - boarding schools, when I was a teen,” Dean says. “Bein’ a hunter’s a pretty active job, Dad couldn’t always have me taggin’ along.”

Hannah notes, with mild suspicion, that he didn’t say us. Sam, apparently, could tag along just fine - but not Dean. Not always. 

“Dangerous too, I bet,” Rachel says. “How old were you, when he started?”

“Four,” Dean says. “Usual story - family member gets murdered by somethin’ weird; find out the supernatural exists; start huntin’ it. Every hunter’s got a tragic backstory.” He shrugs. “Just how it goes.”

“Including you?” Nico asks. Dean takes a bite of his pie. “Every hunter,” He confirms, by way of allusion. 

That doesn’t sound pleasant, Hannah thinks. It’s as tragic as he says it is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man, these chapters are long, huh?

**Author's Note:**

> being inspired by a completely insane early 2010s RTB fanfic that spent half the time not actually being an RTB fanfic but more akin to Great Big Godly Mystery In-Depth Crossover fanfic.... this might go Weird. Hopefully in a fun way?


End file.
